


can't stop you putting roots in my dreamland

by gureisu



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Choi Sandwich, Multi, Pining, Polyamory, Slow Burn, Smut, Vee relationship, saeran AE spoilers, saeran x reader x saeyoung
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:14:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 30,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29123262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gureisu/pseuds/gureisu
Summary: It wasn’t his similarities to Saeran that drew you to him, necessarily, but rather the subtle differences. Saeran smelled like rose water and rain; Saeyoung smelled like honey and clean laundry. He had walls up, defenses that you could sense even as he slept—strong protections around his heart, something Saeran had never had the liberty to develop. But he had a softness, too, a kind of warmth that both complemented and was distinct from Saeran’s.More than once, over the course of that endless, unbearable night, you’d felt the urge to climb onto the bed and curl your body up against his larger one. Of course, you’d resisted.[Multi-chapter Choi sandwich fic set after the good end of Saeran's AE.]
Relationships: 707 | Choi Luciel/Main Character, 707 | Choi Luciel/Reader, Choi Saeran/Main Character, Choi Saeran/Reader
Comments: 78
Kudos: 135





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, AO3! Long time no see! I've been posting SO much mysme content on my tumblr recently, so head on over there if you want more: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gureishi
> 
> Here is (at last) the first chapter of my Choi sandwich fic, which will probably end up around 10-15 chapters in the end (I truly don’t know yet).
> 
> This is set after the good end for Saeran’s AE, in the ambiguous time following [spoilers] the prime minister turning himself in and Saeran leaving the hospital.
> 
> I know this pairing is iffy for lots of folks, and I completely understand why—definitely skip this one if it’s going to make you uncomfy! To be super clear, this fic is (slowly) working toward a vee relationship (the shape, not Jihyun); in other words, the reader will be in a relationship with both twins, but they will not be in a relationship with each other. Chapter one has Saeran smut and a very slow burn with Saeyoung; it’ll be a few chapters before we get anything more than repressed sexual tension with the redhead. ;) I hope you enjoy!

The afternoon sun beat down on the roof of the little car, streaming through the windows and filling your peripheral vision with rainbow sunspots. You sat a little stiffly, the seatbelt cutting into your neck, your feet dangling, just barely skimming the floor.

And suddenly—for what felt like the first time—you were alone with Saeyoung.

How strange, you thought—in truth, you’d been alone with him quite a lot. You’d spent hours, in fact, perched on your knees at his bedside, though he wouldn’t remember any of it. Even in an artificial sleep, Saeyoung had a presence that brought you calm. That one horrible night, unsleeping, thinking in circles, unable to imagine yourself out of the seemingly impossible situation you’d found yourself in—you’d sat beside him, not touching him, just watching, waiting, as if you thought he would somehow wake up and have all the answers.

His facial features, you’d thought at the time, were so like and yet unlike those of his twin—your boyfriend. Saeyoung’s jaw was more defined, his cheekbones less prominent. He had muscle and fat where Saeran had none. In spite of the hallowed-in look the last few weeks had given him, it was evident that he’d reaped the benefits of both real meals and exercise, things Saeran never had with any consistency.

And, on that night, you’d been surprised to find how comfortable you felt around him, though you’d never actually met him face-to-face until the day you’d showed up to rescue him (and ended up losing him again). You’d begun to feel close to him through his phone calls and your chats in the messenger, but the truth was that, for the vast majority of the time you’d spent with him, he’d been asleep. He was essentially a stranger. And yet—

It wasn’t his similarities to Saeran that drew you to him, necessarily, but rather the subtle differences. Saeran smelled like rose water and rain; Saeyoung smelled like honey and clean laundry. He had walls up, defenses that you could sense even as he slept—strong protections around his heart, something Saeran had never had the liberty to develop. But he had a softness, too, a kind of warmth that both complemented and was distinct from Saeran’s.

More than once, over the course of that endless, unbearable night, you’d felt the urge to climb onto the bed and curl your body up against his larger one. Of course, you’d resisted.

Over the last few days, you’d spent a different kind of time together, it was true—this time as the younger Choi twin slept. You'd stood side-by-side at Saeran’s bedside, arms brushing, breathing shallowly as you waited for him to wake. You’d felt, then, the fierce and protective love that radiated off Saeyoung as he watched his brother. Where Saeran projected affection and comfort, Saeyoung gave off an air of strength and certainty. As you’d clutched Saeran’s cold hand and tried to avoid looking for too long at the deep purple bruises covering his face, Saeyoung—without saying anything—had made you feel confident that everything would turn out okay.

But now—today—was different. For the very first time since you’d met _either_ of the brothers, there was nothing to run from, no looming threat, no imminent death. There was no agency to take down, no father to hide from, nobody to save. There was _peace_.

So why was your heart in your throat? Why was the sun so bright and why did you feel like you’d forgotten what to do with your arms?

“Um, Saeyoung?” Your voice came out reedy and thin.

“Yeah?” He turned at the sound of your voice, too quickly, and winced at the sudden movement. He laughed his high-pitched laugh, rubbing his neck with one large hand.

You were curled into the passenger seat of one of his cars, your legs tucked up under you. Saeran had been released from the hospital that day, so Saeyoung had left Saeran’s side for just long enough to retrieve his favorite car, a sleek red Ferrari, to—in his words—“drive Saeran home in style.” For the last few days, you’d essentially lived in the hospital, anxiously waiting for Saeran to wake up and then keeping him company until the hospital was willing to release him. Saeyoung had been there for much of that time, too, perching on the foot of the bed, cracking jokes and bringing strange presents, like a gaming devise he’d designed himself that featured ten different cat-themed puzzles.

Now, at long last, the three of you were on your way back to Saeyoung’s home, where you and Saeran had lived for two weeks before your first attempted rescue of Saeyoung. Since then, nobody had spent much time there. Now, it seemed like the most logical place to go—at least for a while.

Partway through the trip—the bunker was far out of the city, on an unmarked road off a rural highway—Saeran had asked to stop at this little market, pointing it out on his phone and directing Saeyoung to pull off the highway. He’d insisted on going in alone, and you and Saeyoung, both secretly relieved to see him walking around again, didn’t press the point.

But neither of you had thought about the inevitable, either—that for what was _really_ the first time, you would be alone together. In Saeyoung’s Ferrari, surrounded by the scent of newly-cleaned leather.

“I like your car,” you said finally, and immediately grimaced. _How lame am I?_

Saeyoung cackled, his face breaking into a wide grin. “You know, no one’s ever told me that before?”

“What?” You shot him a puzzled look, running a finger over the soft leather stitching. You could tell Saeyoung had taken good care of this car. It was a _very_ nice car.

“The only other person who’s ever been in any of my babies is Vanderwood,” Saeyoung said thoughtfully, stretching one arm above his head. Against your will, your eyes darted to the sliver of skin that peeked out from under his t-shirt. His side was muscled and dotted with scars, both old and recent. You felt your cheeks heating up and quickly looked away.

If Saeyoung noticed your wandering gaze—and you were sure he did—he didn’t mention it.

“And Vanderwood hates my babes,” he continued, stretching his other arm. Again, you were stuck by the similarities—and differences—between the twins. They moved in almost the same way, with a certain languid energy, and yet—Saeran seemed to always be taking up as little space as possible. Saeyoung was the opposite: he was all limbs, sprawling across the driver’s seat.

“Um, what?” you stuttered, realizing you’d stopped listening. You pulled your eyes back up to his face and this time he couldn’t help but acknowledge your staring. His cheeks flushed and for a second—just a split second—you caught a hard look in his golden eyes, a sort of burning you hadn’t seen there before. Then, in an instant, it was gone.

“Vanderwood doesn’t like my cars!” Saeyoung whined, as if the previous moment had never happened. A master of deflection, he was.

“Vanderwood is silly,” you said firmly, kicking your feet out of your sandals and propping them up on the dashboard. Saeyoung hooted with joy.

“Yes! This is what my babies are for! Maximum comfort!”

Suddenly, you were moving, and you shrieked.

“Saeyoung!”

The older Choi twin had a wicked grin on his face as he pressed the seat recline button, hard. The seat slammed back so fast you were practically horizontal.

“I modded some of these features,” he admitted, grinning.

You yelled his name again and swatted at him; he dodged expertly.

A gentle knock on the window startled both of you: you jumped again, and you saw a shadow cross Saeyoung’s face. He was definitely still on high-alert. You understood that. You all would be, for a while.

The shadow cleared away, replaced by a warm, open grin. You smiled too, pushing the lock button to let Saeran back into the cool, air conditioned car.

Your boyfriend slid quietly into the back seat, his green eyes twinkling.

“For you,” he said, and he leaned over the cup holder to pass you a bouquet. It was stunning: chrysanthemums and daffodils and red roses.

“Thank you!” you gasped, knowing, then, that he hadn’t just happened to spot this market on the map but had researched ahead of time, that he’d selected and arranged the bouquet, just as he always did. “But, hey.” You fixed him with a pointed stare. “You’re the one who just got out of the hospital, mister. We should be getting _you_ flowers. Not the other way around!”

“We’re all alive because of you,” he said, shrugging. “I’m going to give you flowers every day for the rest of our lives.”

You felt the (familiar, as of late) sensation of tears stinging the inner corners of your eyes.

“I love you,” you whispered, burying your nose in the flowers and reaching for his hand. His smooth, gentle fingers enveloped yours.

“I love you more than anything in this world,” he said solemnly, bending over to press a soft kiss to the tip of each one of your fingers.

There were the tears again. Even now, after witnessing his strength firsthand, after watching as he recovered from the wounds that should have killed him, it still filled you with awe to see him whole and breathing and alive and free.

“I’m filled with love just watching…!” sang Saeyoung from the driver’s seat. His tone was playful but, as you glanced at him, you saw his expression was sincere.

“I didn’t forget you, hyung,” said Saeran, pulling away to reach for a paper bag on the seat beside him.

“Oh my god?! Do I get flowers?? Am I your beautiful princess too?!” cried Saeyoung, bouncing up and down in his seat. You suppressed a giggle.

From the bag, Saeran produced a sprawling plant with long, hardy-looking leaves, grounded in earth in a delicate clay pot.

“It’s a maranta,” he said, passing the pot to his stunned brother in the front seat. “People call them prayer plants, because the leaves curl in like they’re praying at night. It means thank you.”

Saeyoung took the plant from his brother, uncharacteristically speechless.

“You have to keep it alive,” Saeran added, eyeing his brother warily.

“I will,” Saeyoung said, his tone completely serious. “I promise.”

You roughly wiped away your tears with the sleeve of the sweater you’d been wearing for the past three days.

If Saeran felt shy about the gesture, he didn’t show it. He leaned back in his seat, a soft smile playing over his lips.

“Let’s go home, now,” he said, with a sort of finality. You twisted so you could keep your arm draped over the cup holder, and Saeran rested his hand on the edge of it, his fingertips just barely touching yours. The gesture sent a tingle up your spine.

Saeyoung started the car, a pinched look on his face like he just might cry, too. Then he leaned over and you realized a second too late what was happening and before you knew it, his face was nearly touching your chest, so close you could feel his breath in your lap. Your heart stopped.

He set the plant on the floor at your feet and straightened back up, quickly, as if nothing had happened. Your heart started again, hammering against your rib cage.

_What…?_

Was he teasing you? _No way._ Not now, and not like this. Was he oblivious, completely unaware of the way the air vibrated as his cheek nearly brushed against your neck? Did he see you as a sister already, somebody so entirely devoid of sexuality that he wouldn’t even consider the implications of sticking his face practically in your lap?

You shook your head rapidly as he started the car and pulled out of the parking lot, once again seeming totally unconscious of the inner turmoil he’d just caused you.

 _Who_ cares _if he doesn’t see me as a sexual being?_ you thought frantically. _He’s my boyfriend’s brother, after all._

Saeyoung merged onto the highway, and you forced yourself to take a deep breath. Saeran was alive; the twins were free. There was everything in the world to be relieved about.

So why did you feel like your heart was about to burst?

* * *

Later that night, you sat cross-legged on the bed, alone and a little nervous. You wore a shirt of Saeran’s—of Ray’s, actually, a soft, thin t-shirt he’d worn under all his layers and that had somehow made it out of Mint Eye, along with the other scarce possessions Saeran had. In the bunker, Saeran had hung Ray’s jacket in the closet, not wanting to wear it, not wanting to get rid of it. You understood. You were glad he’d kept it.

The shirt you’d claimed for yourself, loving how soft it was on your skin. You’d been wearing it a lot lately, sleeping in it (and some sweatpants you’d bought for yourself after leaving Mint Eye and realizing you owned essentially no clothes) on the couch in the hospital room.

Now, wearing just the shirt, sitting on the bed you hadn’t slept in in over a week, you felt different. A little self-conscious; a little alluring.

You heard the shower turn off and bit your lip.

When you and Saeran had found this place and decided to stay in it while tracking down Saeyoung, he had dug around in the various large closets and found bedding for you, soft sheets that somebody—probably Vanderwood—had brought Saeyoung. They were still in the original packaging.

He’d put the bedding on Saeyoung’s bed (which seemed to have been barely slept-in) and insisted you sleep there while he stayed on the couch. This plan had lasted exactly twenty-two minutes before you’d gone to the living room, grabbed him by both hands, and dragged him back to join you in the bed. He hadn’t suggested sleeping apart again, after that.

At some point while Saeran was in the hospital, Saeyoung had purchased another bed—a much larger, fancier one. Upon returning to the house that day, you’d found that Saeyoung had converted one of the bunker’s many huge, formerly-empty rooms into a proper bedroom for you and Saeran.

You noticed that he hadn’t even asked if you needed two bedrooms. He’d just assumed.

“We slept in your bed when you were, you know—” you’d admitted guiltily, staring in awe at the room, at the bed, at the fancy sheets (also new).

“Kidnapped?” he’d said lightly. “I figured. I don’t mind. But this is probably easier than us all sleeping in one bed, yeah?”

Saeran had laughed and said something in response but you hadn’t heard it over the inexplicable and irrepressible sound of your heart pounding in your eardrums.

And now here you were, in your beautiful new bed, in your gigantic new room. And you’d felt on edge and sensitive all day, like your skin was made of paper. And Saeran was about to get out of the shower.

And all of this contributed to your nerves, as you perched on the lush new comforter, curling your bare knees into Ray’s shirt. There was a lot that you and Saeran had learned how to do together in the two weeks you’d lived alone in the bunker—things that were new to him and even some that were new to you, too.

But now, that all felt so long ago. You’d barely touched him over the last few days, embracing him innocently, never alone with him for long. You’d felt a burning desire in the pit of your stomach that you’d had to fight back because this was a _hospital_ for god’s sake. And then today had been so strange, and the exchange with Saeyoung in the car had—you were ashamed to admit—only added fuel to the fire.

The door clicked, and you sat up straight. Saeran padded into the room, his white hair dripping onto the towel draped over his shoulders. He wore an unfamiliar t-shirt (probably Saeyoung’s) and the only pants you’d ever seen him sleep in, soft ones that you’d bought for him the day after fleeing Mint Eye.

( _What did you sleep in at Mint Eye?_ you’d asked him. _My clothes,_ he’d said, with a quiet, bitter laugh. _Usually at my desk. I had a bed, but…I probably slept in a bed less in all my time at Mint Eye than I have since leaving.)_

“Hey,” you said softly, patting the spot beside you on the bed.

“Hi, my love,” he said, giving you his gentlest smile. He perched next to you, running the towel over his hair. Grinning, you took it from him and moved behind him on the bed, rubbing his hair dry in easy, practiced motions.

“Mmmm,” he hummed, leaning back against your chest. His body was comforting and familiar and yet, somehow, the feeling of his shoulder blades pressing against you made you feel like you were falling apart at the seams.

“You know…” you started, glad he couldn’t see your suddenly fiery-red cheeks. “We haven’t gotten to sleep here, together, in. A while.”

Saeran was silent for a moment. You ruffled his hair with the towel and then passed it back to him; wordlessly, he tossed it on the floor.

“I’ve been…thinking about that too,” he said, and his sweet voice was different than it had been a moment before. Deeper, or—huskier, somehow.

“Yeah?” He was still facing away from you, and you slid a finger down his neck, catching the beads of water that had fallen there. The water was warm; his skin was warm, too.

Suddenly, he flipped around, surprising you—as he often had before—with his dexterity.

“I missed a lot of things, while I was in the hospital,” he said, his green eyes boring into yours. Your breath caught in your throat.

“I missed your ankles,” he murmured, slipping off the bed to bend over you and press a soft, searing kiss to one ankle, then the other.

“I missed your knees,” he continued, feathering light kisses up your calf, ghosting irreverent kisses on both knees.

“I missed your thighs.” He grasped one leg ever-so-lightly in his hand while dusting kisses up the other.

The ember you’d been tamping down for days sparked inside you.

“I missed my hips,” he said, tugging the waistband of your thin pajama pants down just a hair to press kisses on both hipbones. You didn’t miss the change of pronoun— _his_ hips.

“My sides,” he continued, kissing up one side and across your belly to the other. You let him push up Ray’s shirt, gasping as his lips grazed your belly button.

“Mine,” he whispered, kissing up your chest—lifting your shirt as he went—and onto your neck. He pressed one hard, hot kiss to your throat, and your hips twitched in anticipation. He did it again, harder this time, his teeth grazing your skin. Your nerves had evaporated, replaced by a desperate, burning want.

“You’re teasing me, Saeran,” you murmured, weaving your hands through his hair.

“Am I?” he asked, peering up at you. The raw longing in his eyes took you by surprise, and you squirmed beneath him. He adjusted himself so his hips were just above yours, his chest hovering over you, his face inches from your own. “I wouldn’t want to do that.”

Then he closed the distance between you, his warm lips finally meeting yours. You tasted his toothpaste as he parted his lips, and you flicked your tongue across his teeth.

You’d kissed hundreds of times over the last few days, but they’d been soft, soothing, innocent kisses. This was different.

You moaned into his mouth and felt him respond instantly, his body pressing yours into the thick mattress.

“I want to worship you,” he whispered against your lips. You moaned again, louder, loving the way the sound spurred him on. You pushed your thighs together, seeking some relief from the unbridled desire tearing through you.

Instantly, he sensed it, and instantly, he sought to rectify it.

Saeran slid to the foot of the bed, tugging your pajama pants off your hips, down your legs. His breath on your thighs made your toes curl.

“I want to show you that you’re my goddess,” he said, teeth against your hipbone. You felt yourself going almost numb with want, pins and needles running up and down your legs.

Saeran’s tongue ghosted over your clit once, twice, and your hips bucked up to meet him.

You giggled breathily. “Sorry,” you said, not even sure what you were apologizing for.

“You’re perfect,” he said, and then his tongue danced over you again and you bit your lip, fingers grasping helplessly at the comforter underneath you.

His tongue fluttered over your clit again and again, falling into a natural rhythm.

Fast, much faster than usual, you felt your legs shaking, already close to the edge. The last few days, you realized in a moment of hazy recollection, you’d been holding yourself together like water in cupped hands.

“P-please,” you hissed, and Saeran obliged you, keeping up the rhythm on your clit with his tongue while slipping one finger over you, around you, and then inside you.

You moaned, losing your train of thought entirely as the fire inside you surged, blurring your vision. You gasped his name as the pressure within you built to a point that was almost unbearable. The syllables on your lips were slurred, distorted, and your hips rose from the bed, your thighs shaking uncontrollably.

You focused your gaze, as best at you could, down at him, and caught a glimpse of his white hair bobbing up and down—and that was what did you in.

You came suddenly, the pleasure within you cresting till your vision blacked out completely. Your whole body was trembling and your fingernails bit into your palms, the world fading in and out of existence around you. There was only your heartbeat, Saeran’s tongue, and the fire raging inside you, burning you alive.

Then the flames subsided, and you felt the pleasure, pure and warm and sweet, like licking a lollipop. You swam through it, absorbing its sweetness with every cell of your body.

As the feeling slowly dissipated, you gasped, pulling Saeran off you with a fist of his hair in your fingers.

“i’m so. Freaking. Obsessed with you,” you said, tugging his face up to your level so you could kiss him fiercely.

He only moaned, and through his sweatpants you could feel just how affected he’d been, watching you come for him. You skated one hand down his body and palmed his erection through his pants and he crested into you.

“How bad do you want me right now?” you asked, smiling into his shoulder as you dipped a finger under the waistband of his pants, just grazing the base of his cock before pulling back out. He groaned.

“I need you,” he hissed, his hips stuttering against yours; he hadn’t been this unrestrained, this desperate, since your very first time with him.

“I’m always yours,” you said, and you tugged down his pants, pleased to find that he had nothing on under them. You reached for him again and grasped his cock in your hand, and he bit into your shoulder, trying not to cry out.

You guided him so his cock hovered just over you and wiggled your hips so he rubbed against your slick folds. You moaned softly, more for his sake than yours this time; he was long gone, his pupils totally blown and his gaze unfocused. He cried out for you, and you ran him over you a few more times, letting him suffer for a moment longer, relishing his anticipation.

Then you rocked your hips up, using your hands to guide him inside you. He made a sound between a groan and a squeak and thrusted into you immediately, as if unable to restrain himself. You steadied him with both hands on his shoulders.

“You…” he whispered, his disheveled face swimming before your eyes. “You…take the lead…please.”

You happily obliged him, wrapping one leg around him then rolling him over. His head fell back on the bed and you straddled him, leaning back and gripping his legs with both hands. You clenched around him slowly, carefully, making little figure-eights with your hips. He trembled beneath you, totally overcome.

You leaned back farther and felt him hit your g-spot; feeling the heat building behind your eyelids again, you forced yourself to keep moving, increasing the tempo.

“Oh my god,” he hissed, his voice breaking. His hips were shaking uncontrollably; you knew he couldn’t hold out for very long. Not now, not after waiting for what felt like forever.

You flipped onto your side, pulling him with you, wrapping both legs tightly around his hips. With your thighs, you pulled him deeper into you, and he took over then, seemingly unable to hold back, thrusting into you frantically.

He gripped your shoulder with one hand, fingernails biting into your flesh. His other hand drifted down, down, and found your clit, touching it gently, flicking against its pulsing heat.

The unexpected touch was too much for you, and you came again, unexpectedly, wonderfully, your whole body clenching around him. This time, you saw white, your vision narrowed to the the glistening of his hair in the dimly-lit room.

He chased you immediately, shaking in your arms as he came. He pressed his lips to your neck, grazing you with his teeth, and your hands tangled in your hair. The pleasure surged around you, wrapping you up, and you felt like you were hovering feet above the bed.

And then you came down again, panting as his face swam back into sight. He pressed his lips fiercely against yours, and you returned his kiss, holding him with your whole body.

“You are my everything,” he whispered into your mouth. Carefully, he pulled out of you, giving you a chance to catch your breath as he retrieved the towel from the floor and returned to clean you off.

“I really, really, really missed you,” you said earnestly.

“I’m so sorry for lying,” he responded, eyes on your face as he ran the towel over your thighs.

“When did you lie?”

“I said I wanted you to be happy without me,” he said. “I meant it, at the time. But I also…didn’t. I was always selfish—I always wanted us to be happy together.”

“And thank god for that, because I was about to smack you for that stupid plan of yours,” you said, laughing a little and tugging him back up onto the bed.

“You can do that now, if you want,” he said, face inches from yours, eyes sparkling. “But I promise that from now until eternity, I’ll always be right by your side.”

“Good,” you said, snuggling into his neck, feeling your body growing heavy. “Cause that was your last chance to get away. I’m not letting you go again.”

The anticipation, the pleasure, the release had all spun your head around, and you found your mind growing hazy again, your body already trying to drift off to sleep. He ran his fingers through your hair gently, meticulously brushing out the tangles.

“I love you,” he whispered, pressing a feather-light kiss to your forehead.  
“I love you, Saeran,” you whispered back, face buried in his chest.

You weren’t much for religion, personally—but you’d pray if that was what it took. You’d do anything to keep him right here, beside you, every night for the rest of your life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And there you both were. Alone together. In the kitchen. Your hands covered in chicken juices. His brother nowhere to be found.
> 
> His brother. The love of your life.
> 
> “I’m not sure!” you said, too brightly. “Um, you can check my phone, if you want. He’d text if he was on his way home.”
> 
> Conscious of the intimacy of this particular offer (and thus regretting it as soon as you’d said it), you turned away again, dusting the last of the herbs over the chicken. You didn’t see Saeyoung’s face as he reached for your phone; didn’t register the look of confusion and longing that passed briefly across his golden eyes, disappearing almost as soon as it had appeared.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter 2! The tension is building, building, building. What will it take for our poor mc to realize what's going on?
> 
> This chapter is SFW. Expect updates every 5-7 days~ <3

A few days passed before you were alone with Saeyoung again.

It wasn’t that you’d been avoiding him, necessarily, but rather than there had been a lot of activity in the bunker over the last couple of days. The RFA had been coming and going—seeing for themselves that the twins were alive, of course, as well as bringing gifts both strange and lovely. Yoosung had brought a good deal of his home cooking and Jaehee had given you an assortment of coffees, while Zen had offered several DVDs of his own performances (which the three of you had already watched, of course—one of them multiple times).

Vanderwood had been around, too, perhaps more than they’d have liked—helping the brothers finish up the last of the clean-up work regarding the agency before leaving for their hometown.

By the time the chaos had died down at the end of each day, you’d fallen into bed with Saeran, exhausted and exhilarated and, most of all, relieved to be sleeping curled around his body once again.

Today, however, Jumin had stolen Saeran away for assistance with the development of his new iteration of the intelligence unit, and the rest of the RFA seemed to be easing back into their regular lives. This left you and Saeyoung, neither of whom had had regular lives to begin with.

As deeply and enthusiastically as you appreciated your friends’ presence, you were also relieved to have peace and quiet for once. The bunker felt bigger than usual after days of company; you noticed that your footsteps echoed in the halls as you walked past the numerous rooms Saeyoung had left empty—because, you thought with a twinge of sadness, he’d never expected to live long enough to fill them.

You made your way to the kitchen. In the two weeks you and Saeran had lived here alone together, you’d begun stocking Saeyoung’s gigantic, empty kitchen. You loved to cook, together and for each other, and doing so had helped you feel grounded recently. Today, there was no Saeran in his adorable apron hovering behind you and pressing surprise kisses to the skin behind your ear as you cooked. Still, you were happy to be doing it.

Today, you were roasting a chicken.

You washed your hands and pulled the six pound chicken you’d bought the day before out of the refrigerator. You put on a playlist of upbeat pop music and chopped up fresh spices, humming to yourself. Drizzling oil over the chicken, you wiggled your hips to the music. It was nice to feel like you had total agency over the simple task before you, to be alone with your thoughts and your music and your chicken.

Except you weren’t alone.

You didn’t hear Saeyoung come up behind you, which shouldn’t have been a surprise—you never could hear either of the brothers moving about the house, which was another unpleasant reminder that they’d led lives that necessitated not being heard.

“Hiya,” he said, and—taken by surprise in spite of everything—you jumped. You spun around, alarmed, and saw him: leaning against the doorframe, a goofy grin on his face. “Did I scare you?”

“Yes!” You held up your oily, parsley-coated hands in defeat. “I’m going to have to put collars with little bells on them on the both of you, I swear.”

Saeyoung laughed, and you recognized the swooping feeling in the bit of your belly; you’d felt it the other day, too, in the car. His laugh was somewhat different than the one you’d come to know (and appreciate, and seek out) in the days you’d first known him, when you’d been at Mint Eye and he’d just been a voice in a phone. It was softer now, and you thought perhaps it was more genuine.

“I wouldn’t mind that,” he said quietly.

Not sure if you’d heard him right, you said nothing, turning back to the chicken. The room felt full of static all of a sudden—sharp and buzzy.

When it was the three of you all together, as it so often was, you didn’t feel this way: like the kitchen had been cast suddenly into a tropical climate, the air thick, hot and sticky. You understood that dynamic, somehow—you, your boyfriend, and his brother. _Fine._ Being alone with him, though, felt different, somehow—inexplicably dangerous.

Knowing the backs of your ears were red, you liberally slathered the chicken with the parsley, as well as thyme and rosemary and cayenne. You cut open a lemon, perhaps too forcefully, wincing as a little juice squirted onto your cheek.

“What are you doing?” Saeyoung asked, persistent as ever. He had moved closer—you could feel it.

“What does it look like?” you asked. You grabbed half of the lemon and smushed it inside the chicken, as far as it would go.

“I don’t know if you want me to answer that,” he said, chuckling. You saw him in your peripheral vision: he was hovering just behind you, his eyes on your arm which was elbow-deep in the chicken.

“Saeyoung!” you reproached, shaking your head (also with a bit too much force). A lock of hair slipped out of your ponytail and into your eyes. _Well, shit._

You pulled your arm out of the chicken and squeezed the other half of the lemon over it. Your hands were covered in chicken juice and lemon and spices; in other words, disgusting. You twitched your head to the side, trying to get rid of the pesky lock of hair. _Great_. It ended up in your mouth.

“Got it.” Before you could react, Saeyoung had leaned over you, tucking your hair behind your ear with his deft fingers. Your cheek burned where he’d touched you and you caught a whiff of his sweet, spicy scent. _Oh god._

“Oh, um. Th-thanks,” you muttered, avoiding his eyes. You were sure he could feel the heat radiating off your cheeks. It was burning you.

You expected him to tease you then, to make a joke about the situation and reaffirm all your notions that he saw you as a lovable but thoroughly non-sexual sister type.

But he didn’t. Seeming to realize too late what he’d done, he noticeably flinched. He laughed a little awkwardly as he retreated to the opposite corner of the kitchen, as far away from you as he could be.

“Gotta take care of the chef, you know,” he muttered.

 _Well, that’s even worse_. His reaction—the way his face flushed as he slunk away from you—confirmed a fear you didn’t even know you had. He was aware of it, too.

 _Aware of_ what _, exactly?_

You cut up the rest of the lemon with shaky hands and arranged the slices around the chicken in your largest roasting pan (you’d bought this recently, too—Saeyoung had really had nothing here. _What did he eat for all those years?_ you wondered—not for the first time).

“Ahahaha, um. S-so. When is my brother getting home?” Saeyoung asked, acknowledging neither the moment that had just passed nor the abrupt change of subject. You knew for certain, in that moment, that his mind had spun off in the same—totally improbable and illogical—direction that yours had.

And there you both were. Alone together. In the kitchen. Your hands covered in chicken juices. His brother nowhere to be found.

His _brother_. The love of your life.

“I’m not sure!” you said, too brightly. “Um, you can check my phone, if you want. He’d text if he was on his way home.”

Conscious of the intimacy of this particular offer (and thus regretting it as soon as you’d said it), you turned away again, dusting the last of the herbs over the chicken. You didn’t see Saeyoung’s face as he reached for your phone; didn’t register the look of confusion and longing that passed briefly across his golden eyes, disappearing almost as soon as it had appeared.

“Do you want me to pretend I don’t know your passcode?” he asked after a moment, his voice a little weak.

“ _Do_ you know my passcode?” You spun to face him, unable to help yourself. _Hackers._

“J-just to be clear, I didn’t learn it on purpose!” he stammered, his face turning almost as red as his hair. You could’t help but find it endearing. _Ugh. Why do I live with_ two _hackers?_

“Do I even want to know?” You sighed, but you were smiling—how could you not? He looked so hopelessly mortified. You told him the passcode—just in case it made him feel better.

“Y-yeah,” he said, looking down, typing it in. “The day you met Saeran. I know. I saw you put it in one time—by _accident_ , by the way—and my brain just. Remembered it. Sorry.” His voice got quieter and quieter as he spoke. He practically whispered the apology into his chest.

“You _saw_ me put it in?” You couldn’t help laughing, feeling relieved at the sensation. Laughing is good; laughing is normal. _Laughing is something you are allowed to do with your boyfriend’s twin brother._

“Saw…in a sense.” He laughed too, finally meeting your eyes. His were brighter than usual, shining behind his glasses.

You shook your head and turned, trying to grab the pan with the chicken in it too fast; perhaps unsurprisingly, you stumbled, missing a step as you tried to keep the heavy pan aloft.

Once again moving faster than you could register, Saeyoung was there. He caught the pan easily with one hand, the other arm wrapping firmly around your shoulders. Your back hit his chest, broader than Saeran’s. For a moment, you stopped breathing.

“You’re gonna give me a heart attack!” he said, his voice surprisingly sharp. He took the weight of the pan from you and you stumbled again, finding yourself pressed harder into him. He felt huge to you in that moment, capable of enveloping you or sweeping you off your feet. His scent filled your nostrils and your head swam.

“S-sorry!” you gasped, wiggling out of his grasp. He pulled away from you quickly, taking the pan to the oven. He looked almost…angry.

You watched his back, your body still overwhelmed by the scent and feel of him. It was the closest you’d ever been. You took a shallow, shaky breath.

“Sorry,” you said again. You didn’t know what else to say.

In that moment, the security system chimed, and you heard the load clanking of the series of doors unlocking themselves. _Saeran._

“Oh yeah,” Saeyoung muttered, his back still to you. “Saeran’s almost home.”

“Thanks,” you said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of your voice. “I noticed.”

You had no reason to be short with him, but you felt annoyed all of a sudden. You wished he’d—what, exactly? Not stopped you from falling and probably hurting yourself? You stalked to the sink, drowning the sound of your heartbeat in the hot water rushing over your hands.

You knew you wouldn’t hear Saeran coming into the kitchen, so you didn’t even try to listen for his footsteps. You stayed at the sink, hypnotized by the bubbles floating up from your sudsy hands, ignoring Saeyoung. Waiting.

You felt arms wrapping around your waist and tensed, even recognizing his soft, flowery scent, even knowing intimately the hands that skated across your stomach.

“I’m home, my love,” he murmured into your hair.

Immediately comforted by the sensation of being wrapped up in him, you turned the water off, holding your hands above your head as you rotated in his arms so you could see his face.

“I missed you!” you said, because it was true.

He kissed you softly—with no regard, you noticed, for his brother, whose presence you could still feel like warm rain on your back. His lips tasted of the lip balm you’d bought for him and his arms felt safe. You were comforted, too, by the butterflies in your stomach, by the heat behind your shoulder blades. _I love him no less than I ever did._

_So why…?_

Saeran pulled back, and you saw him register the look in your eyes. You wondered how you must look: anxious? Guilty? He ran a soft finger over your cheek.

“How was your day, princess?”

“It was calm,” you said, only half-lying. _It was calm up until the last half hour or so._

“You weren’t lonely?”

You giggled and felt a blush creeping over your cheeks. _No._

“No!” said Saeyoung loudly from the corner where he’d been lingering. You snuck a peek at him, and his cheeks were red, too. _How suspicious do we seem right now?_

 _But_ , you reminded yourself firmly, _there’s nothing to be suspicious of._

“I helped her made the chicken!” Saeyoung sang, for all the world oblivious to the thoughts swirling helplessly around in your mind.

Saeran raised his eyebrows at you. “Really?”  
“Of course not.”

Saeran laughed his sweet laugh, ignoring Saeyoung as he insisted that he really _had_ been helpful, going to peer at the chicken in the oven. You took a breath, starting to feel a little calmer. _This_ was normal.

* * *

And it kept on being normal as you settled onto the couch with a book, feet kicked up in Saeran’s lap while you waited for the chicken to roast; he propped his laptop on your legs and typed, working on the program Jumin’s team would be using. The feeling of his fingers on the keys, the laptop against your legs, was natural and familiar and wonderful.

And it was normal, too, as you eventually pulled the chicken out of the oven—crisp and golden and smelling deliciously like thyme and lemon. The three of you ate together, as you nearly always did. And Saeran rested his hand on your knee under the table, and you felt warm and full and cozy as you listened to the brothers debate the pros and cons of a programming language you’d never even heard of before.

After dinner, the twins insisted on cleaning up (which generally involved a lot of Saeyoung whining and knocking things over and Saeran intervening and scolding him, taking over the tasks with remarkable patience). You retreated to the living room to flip through streaming channels on the gigantic TV. Saeran had seen essentially no TV or movies in his life and was enthralled by everything; Saeyoung had bizarre tastes and generally couldn’t be trusted— so you’d appointed yourself in charge of picking things to watch, and everyone seemed grateful for the arrangement.

Curling yourself into a more comfortable position, you found a movie that’d come out recently and looked just interesting enough to keep the twins engaged, but just benign enough that you could tune it out. You couldn’t quite put it into words, even to Saeran, but you felt like your head was spinning round and round. You hadn’t gotten to fully process everything that had happened over the past few weeks yet, and suddenly everyone around you was slipping back into normal life, while you felt like you still barely had a grasp on reality.

You heard alarmingly loud splashing from the kitchen and briefly considered intervening on Saeran’s behalf, but stopped yourself. Saeran had a greater capacity to deal with his brother than you gave him credit for—and the two of them were so rarely alone, usually buffered by your presence. It was good for them to have to handle each other one on one, every now and then. And you were _so_ comfortable…

You pulled a blanket over your legs, heavy head dropping into the back of the squishy couch. You heard the boys’ voices as if through a tunnel; it was a comforting feeling, drifting off to the sounds of the playful bickering of people you loved.

_People you loved…_

Your head swam with images of the two of them, manifested by your tired, blurry mind. Long fingers, calloused from typing; sleepy eyes and messy hair and slightly too-big clothing. Red-headed Saeran and white-haired Saeyoung, but no…that wasn’t right…

“Are you sleeping, sweetheart?” You woke abruptly from your half-slumber to the feeling of Saeran’s lips pressing gently against the skin above your right eyebrow. You head felt fuzzy. What were you just thinking about?

“Are we gonna watch a movie, or…?” Saeyoung’s voice came from the doorway, trailing off as he came into the room; you opened one eye and saw him looking down at you, grinning. “Is the princess of the bunker too sleepy?”

“Don’t wanna be the princess of a bunker,” you mumbled, sitting up and tucking the blanket around your knees. “Get me a home that’s above ground and we can talk about who’s the princess.”

Saeyoung laughed, raucous and warm and familiar, and that too felt normal. Maybe, you thought, that moment today in the kitchen was a fluke, a bizarre heart-stuttering anomaly. Saeran slid onto the couch beside you, coiling up lithe body against yours—catlike, adorable. Immediately, you let your head fall onto his shoulder, and draped an arm over your lap.

“Whaaaat did you pick for us?” Saeyoung sang. He hesitated for a moment, as if trying to decide if there was room for him on Saeran’s other side. There obviously wasn’t; he draped himself over the other arm of the couch—technically next to you and yet as noticeably far away from your body as humanly possible.

 _Fine,_ you thought, a little annoyed. _Whatever you have to do._

You summarized the movie you’d picked for them and neither one of them protested—they never did. You often wondered whether you had really excellent taste in movies, or if the twins just liked going along with anything you suggested. You didn’t ask which one it was.

Saeyoung used his phone to dim the lights, and the pretty little LEDs came to life, glowing red and yellow in a string above the TV. For what it had lacked in food (and other basic necessities for being alive), the bunker—even when you’d first moved into it— _did_ have excellent movie lighting.

But the dim lights and the movie’s soft soundtrack and the vague feeling of Saeran’s heartbeat just made everything feel hazy again, and you were finding it difficult to keep your eyes open. In your previous life—which felt like forever ago—you were at night owl; at Mint Eye, you’d slept at odd hours, always half-awake, anticipating one of Ray’s rare and delightful visits. He often came in the middle of the night, as if he had no sense of time—“Yes,” Saeran told you later, “You’re right. He didn’t.”

Now, you felt tired all the time. Though you’d emerged physically unharmed from the events of the previous week—though you were the only resident of the bunker, in fact, who had—your mind bore the scars of everything you’d experienced and witnessed recently. You felt it shutting down easily and often, as if begging you for time to heal.

Saeran’s hair tickled your cheek pleasantly and the lurid room blurred with the sounds of the movie into a miasma of comfortable deliciousness in your mind. Your surroundings were edging away, the soft couch disappearing from beneath you, the sounds and sensations melting into a dream…

Laying in a field, the grass caressing your face…

…someone licking icing off your bottom lip…

…the sweet, inexplicable smell of something baking in the distance…

…a soft hand on your thigh…

…and, suddenly, the jarring sensation of your body shifting as somebody got off the couch. You fell into wakefulness heavily.

“…fell asleep,” you murmured, nuzzling your head into Saeran’s shoulder. “Think I had a dream about you.”

The shoulder beneath your head shifted a little, and something felt different; it was more cushioned than you were used to, and maybe a little bit higher up. The angle of your head felt strange. And wasn’t Saeran on your _left_ side…?

“Probably not about _me_ ,” said a voice that most certainly did _not_ belong to your boyfriend. Your eyes flew open.

“Oh,” you said.

You were, irrefutably and inexplicably, curled up against Saeyoung.

“I, uhhh…didn’t mean to surprise you,” he muttered. You lifted your head, only making the situation worse—his face was so close to your own. “We didn’t want to wake you.”

His proximity paralyzed you. You’d certainly never been near him like this before—you could practically count every one of his eyelashes and feel the warm breath from his slightly parted lips as he stared down at you, eyes wide behind his glasses. There was such a strange look on his face, and you needed to _move_ , dammit, but his scent intoxicated you and your muscles felt like jelly.

Up close like this, his face held such an innocence. You’d noticed it before, when he was asleep. Normally, his demeanor vacillated wildly between carefree and closed off—both protective mechanisms, ones you recognized easily. Behind all that, though, there was an almost childlike look to him—a wide-eyed longing, as though he was waiting, with a patience that could be borne only from deep neglect, for someone to offer him comfort.

And as you thought this, it was as if something broke inside you—a string, pulled taut, snapped, and you were overcome by the urge to close the tiny bit of distance between you, to press a searing kiss to the crease that had appeared on his forehead, just between his eyes.

Something must have changed in your expression, because he changed, too. The open and naïve yearning on his face was replaced, in one breathtaking instant, with something new: his eyes darkened, clouded over, as though he was at war with himself.

“Oh,” you said again.

And he flinched, as though that one syllable had dragged him back from the precipice of a cliff. There was a new look on his face now, and this one you recognized at once: it was fear.

He leapt to his feet and you instinctively shifted away from him, too; he stood still, silent, eyes cast downward. You didn’t know why, exactly, but you felt as if you’d done something very wrong.

“Morning, sleepyhead.”

Saeran appeared from the kitchen, and Saeyoung leapt as if he was expecting an attack. You leaned back into the couch, feeling dizzy.

“You slept through most of the movie,” Saeran told you, making his way back to your side. His expression was soft; did he not feel the overwhelming tension in the room?

“Sorry,” you said, leaning into him, toying aimlessly with the edge of his sleeve. “Didn’t mean to.”

He laughed and ruffled your hair; the gesture felt like swallowing a warm drink.

“You don’t have to apologize for falling asleep,” he said.

“I—” said Saeyoung, and you both turned to him; if he hadn’t noticed his brother’s strange behavior before, Saeran certainly noticed it now. You felt him tense a little; Saeyoung stood as though he was in a war zone rather than his own living room. “I’m gonna go to bed,” he finished, a little stiffly. “It’s late.”

It wasn’t.

“Are you sure?” Saeran’s voice was hesitant; after all they’d been through, you thought, the brothers still had no idea how to comfort each other. And Saeran, of course, didn’t actually know what was wrong with Saeyoung. Technically, neither did you.

 _Except_ , said a little voice in the back of your head—a little voice that had been growing steadily louder, against your will, for several days. _Except you_ do _know, don’t you?_

Saeyoung turned away, muscles taut as if he wished he were running. He muttered a goodnight over his shoulder and slunk into the shadows of the hallway. In an instant, he’d disappeared.

Saeran exhaled slowly. For a moment, neither of you spoke.

“Do you know what…?” he started, fingers drumming against your knee.

“Not really.” Neither true nor false.

“I still don’t…” Saeran’s fingers tapped your leg faster, faster. You stilled them with gentle fingers and he looked up at your gratefully. “I still don’t know how to talk to him,” he admitted.

“You’ll learn,” you said.

He nodded slowly and intertwined his fingers with yours.

“I’ll try tomorrow,” he said thoughtfully. You nuzzled your face into his shoulder, hiding your expression.

Saeran buried his other hand in your hair, running his fingers over your scalp in the way he knew you loved. He brushed through the strands, untangling, smoothing. This was one of the first gestures of intimacy he’d felt comfortable with—brushing your hair and, eventually, playing with it with just his fingers. Usually, this pacified you. But tonight, your thoughts were racing, and though you closed your eyes, you couldn’t slow your heart, hammering violently against your ribs.

 _You_ , not Saeran, were the one who needed to try to talk to Saeyoung.

 _But_ , muttered that frustratingly insistent voice, which was growing louder by the minute, _what on earth will you say?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear from you if you're enjoying this so far! You can also hop on over to my tumblr for lots more mysme writing: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/gureishi


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here, in the cold, musty-smelling garage, with Saeyoung in front of you—still, silent, face hidden—you found you had no words at all.
> 
> “Go back inside,” he said, sounding as though he had armed himself against you—you heard a battalion in his voice.
> 
> “I want to talk to you,” you said. This much you knew was true.
> 
> “But I don’t want to talk to you,” he answered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is chapter three! 
> 
> This one's a day late, but from now on, I'll be updating every Sunday :) This chapter is SFW.

You never got the chance to talk to Saeyoung the next day, because he had, it seemed, stopped speaking to you.

It took a few hours for you to notice. You woke late, having slept restlessly in spite of your exhausted mind. You’d woken too frequently to remember your dreams, but flashes stuck with you: sideways glances and dizzy touches. Saeyoung’s absence wasn’t surprising, at first: you didn’t particularly expect to see him while you made your coffee or sat at the little table by the window sipping it, Saeran working quietly on his laptop beside you. This little morning ritual was usually for just the two of you; in the daytime, it was normal for Saeyoung to be hidden away—in his office, or in the garage, or passed out after staying up till sunrise.

Afterwards, you followed Saeran outside, perching on an overturned bucket to watch him work in the little garden he was starting to plant behind the bunker. You didn’t expect to see Saeyoung out here, either—he was (and there was no better way to put it, you thought) an indoor cat. You rested your face in your hands, watching quietly as Saeran worked. Since moving back into the bunker, he’d made three trips into town already, browsing various plant nurseries, accumulating an assortment of plants and seeds—all things that were low maintenance and hardy, because Saeran would never put something in the ground that would die without constant attention. Not when he wasn’t sure how long you’d be living here.

He was on his hands and knees in the dirt, carefully carving out a little line of earth. You’d seen people garden standing up, using long-handled tools to dig and weed and turn the earth; Saeran never did it that way. He liked to be _inside_ the garden, as close to the plants’ roots as he could be. It was the way he heard their voices best.

“What are those?” you asked, peeking at the seed packet in his hand. He turned to you and— _oh, he’s radiant_ , you thought: his cheeks were sun-warmed, there was dirt on the tip of his nose, and his hair practically glowed in the afternoon sunlight. He was beautiful to you in the morning, half-asleep as you dropped a gentle kiss on his forehead; beautiful to you in the evening, nudging you with his hip as he cut up vegetables beside you in the kitchen; but he was most beautiful like this, you thought: sitting amongst his neat little rows of newly-planted seeds. This was the way you always pictured him in your mind’s eye: a quiet smile, surrounded by greenery.

“They’re gentians,” he said, eyes glowing with pride as he held out the seeds for you to see. “They’re extremely strong. They’ll grow under almost any conditions.”

You peered at the delicate drawing on the packet. They didn’t look hardy to you—in the picture, they looked soft and fragile. But you’d long learned that appearances meant nothing at all about fragility and strength.

“I love them,” you told him. You really did. “I hope we get to see them bloom.”

Saeran shook a few of the seeds into his palm; he pressed them into the earth with extreme care.

“We will, eventually,” he said softly. “If not this year, then in the future.”

You nodded slowly. No one had brought up, yet, what would happen next. For now, you lived here; your poor, overwrought mind couldn’t even fathom thinking more than a few hours ahead.

But the question hung in the air: where _will_ we go?

And there was another question, perhaps more pressing; it came to you, against your will, making your head ache.

_And when we do leave here, what about Saeyoung?_

“You haven’t seen Saeyoung today, have you?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level. There was no need to worry Saeran unnecessarily; it was possible, you thought, _likely_ even, that he’d been underneath one of his cars all day, entirely unaware of the passage of time. It was possible that the strange feelings that had been slowly coalescing in your body, gradually solidifying into concrete thoughts, were actually baseless, nothing but ephemeral dreams.

Saeran hummed thoughtfully.

“No,” he said; your stomach turned. “No, I haven’t.”

You tapped one leg restlessly, chewing your lip. Saeran peered up at you, the delicate seeds cupped in his palm.

“Did you want to look for him?” he asked, and if there was any suspicion behind that soft smile, it was undetectable. Often, Saeran was wide open for you: emotions laid bare, exposed for your perusal. But occasionally he was inscrutable; his light green eyes, made brighter by the afternoon sun, gave away nothing.

You sighed heavily, knowing there was only one way to assuage the anxiety coiling in your chest.

“I guess I do,” you said. Saeran’s expression was enigmatic. You wondered—and not for the first time—how much he saw, how much he understood.

“Let me know if you find him,” Saeran said. His eyes were on the earth again, his focus impeccable; his nimble fingers worked at the soil, burying his seeds by hand. You took a deep breath, wiping your sweaty hands on your jeans, and turned back to the bunker, which loomed almost prison-like behind you. There was nothing else for it—at the very least, you needed to see him. At best, you needed to ask him…

Ask him…

_Ask him what?_

You took the steps two at a time; now that you’d decided, you were suddenly impatient. You felt strongly that it would be imprudent to call his name; instead, you kicked off your shoes by the back door, padding down the long hallway.

Outside, everything was springtime: bright and airy and scented like rose petals. Inside, the air felt stale: there was a constant hum from the fans that cooled the computers, and the temperature was regulated and always just slightly too cold.

He was in none of the common areas, but that was to be expected. His bedroom door was open; hesitantly, you peered inside, but it was dark. The bed looked—just as it had when you’d first found the place—untouched.

At the very end of the hall—as far as possible from the rest of the home, which you supposed he’d done on purpose—was his office. You’d been in here often when Saeyoung had been missing; Saeran had unabashedly gone through files and programs you couldn’t even begin to comprehend, and you’d sat on the hard little couch in the corner, chewing your fingernails and waiting for a miracle.

Since Saeyoung had returned, you’d barely set foot in this room. It felt different, with him here. It felt off-limits.

You knocked on the door.

You knew you’d found him right away: there was the sound of a rolling chair shifting, a few keys clicking. You waited, hand on the doorknob, eyebrows raised. Was he going to ignore you?

“Yeah?” he called, and at the sound of his voice your stomach did a funny little flip. _Oh no_ , you thought. _What is happening to me?_

“It’s me,” you said, perhaps unnecessarily. Suddenly, your tongue felt too big, like you couldn’t quite remember how you normally fit it in your mouth. Your palms were sweaty.

There was a prolonged pause and a part of you wanted to turn tail and run: run back to the beautiful, warm outdoors, and your beautiful, warm boyfriend in his beautiful, warm garden. You stood firm; hands balled into fists, nails leaving little half-moon shapes in your palms.

“Sorry,” he said finally. There was a different tone to his voice now, neither playful nor teasing nor gentle. He sounded _angry_. “I’m busy right now.”

“Oh…”

You took a step back. There was no reason to bother him if he was busy, of course; after all, there was nothing in _particular_ you’d needed to say. But something about the way he spoke to you shook you to your core. It was as if you were a stranger.

“I’ll leave you alone, then,” you said. You retreated slowly, not even sure if he’d heard you; when you were halfway down the hall—and you couldn’t explain why you did this—you started to run.

It was only when you were at the back door, stuffing your feet into your shoes with a ferocity that took you somewhat by surprise, that you realized: _busy with what?_

You turned, reaching for the doorknob—only to come face-to-face with Saeran, who’d just opened the screen door. He took in your odd posture: eyes wide, one shoe on. You must’ve looked so distressed, you thought: frozen in place, full of feelings.

“Are you okay?” he asked, taking your face in one dirt-streaked hand. You didn’t mind—Saeran was earth and rain and wind. He could be soaked and muddy and desolate and you’d still wrap him in your arms.

“I…” you took a steadying breath, not sure how to answer him. _Were_ you okay? His eyes were soft and you felt better, all of a sudden, safer, with his gentle, dirty fingers on your cheek. “Yeah,” you said, somewhat truthfully. “He’s, uh…busy.”

Saeran kissed your cheek, letting his fingers fall from your cheek (you missed them immediately). He slipped off his shoes, lined them up by the door, set his shovel in the little basket of gardening tools. The back of the house was gradually becoming his: neat rows of shoes and organized tools. It was every bit as tidy as Saeyoung’s office was disorderly.

“Busy with what?” he asked.

 _Good question,_ you thought.

As he slipped past you to the little half-bathroom by the back door, he grazed your waist with one hand—a phantom touch, barely there, but enough to soothe the inexplicable fears that had begun building in that dark hallway, outside Saeyoung’s office door.

“I’m not sure,” you told him—this time, completely truthfully. You followed him, leaning against the doorframe of the small, industrial bathroom, waiting as he scrubbed his hands. In this, like everything, he was meticulous: he got soap between all his fingers, carefully rubbed away every last bit of dirt. Something about the way the steam illuminated his fingers—thin, agile, prominent—enthralled you and made you feel hot and fidgety.

“I can’t think of anything in particular he’d be working on,” Saeran said thoughtfully. He turned off the water, dried his hands with one of the towels you’d bought on a recent expedition into town. Saeyoung’s house, previously, had had none of these things—no soap dispensers or bath mats or hand towels. If you hadn’t known better, you’d never have thought anyone was living here at all.

“Oh,” said Saeran; and suddenly, he was in front of you again, startlingly close, quick and quiet as ever. His lips curved upward in a playful little smile, and you found your eyes lingering on them—delicate, impossibly pink. “There’s dirt on your cheek.”

Coyly, tongue poking out between those enchanting lips, he leaned in. He brought his thumb to your cheek—warm and a little rough—and something about the way he rubbed your face clean with his fingertip stirred up the mess of emotions swirling inside you.

He seemed focused, intent on his task, but you didn’t miss the pink dusted across his cheeks, the way his breath quickened—also, you were pretty sure there was no more dirt on your face. Almost cheek-to-cheek with you, he shifted his gaze; you were hit all at once by the full force of those intense green eyes and you felt your knees go weak.

“Saeran.”

 _Oh_ , he was baiting you—he held two fingers to your cheek, waiting for your next move.

And it all whirled together in a delicious, complicated, colorful mess in your mind: Saeran’s rough finger and the dirt on your cheek and the careful way he washed his hands and Saeyoung’s angry voice and the warm sun and the cold air in the hall and the way Saeyoung’s eyelashes would have felt against your face if you’d just leaned in a little closer last night and Saeran’s cool body against yours in bed. And then your mind went blank.

Roughly, clumsily, you threw your arms around Saeran’s neck and kissed him, pulling his body flush against yours with a force that took you both by surprise. You parted your lips, panting into his mouth, and his lithe tongue swiped across your bottom lip. You deepened the kiss, molding yourself to him; you felt lightheaded and, somehow, sure that his lips were the only thing tying you down to the earth.

As if sensing this, his hands came to your waist, steadying you; at the same time, you felt his fingers digging in, gripping a little too hard. Experimentally, you pressed against him , wiggling your hips; without breaking the kiss, he growled, low in his throat, and you felt victorious. Yes, he needed you.

Suddenly, you were moving; he’d broken the kiss and was staring down at you, eyes searing, and then he was walking you back, back, till you were pressed up against the doorframe. It was study behind you, supporting you; he brushed his lips, feather light, against your jaw, and your legs went numb.

And then his lips were on yours again, sugary sweet, and you were grabbing at his shirt, bunching it in your fingers. He pressed you harder into the doorframe, kissing you with the hunger of the lost, lonely boy that still lived inside him.

Your head was full of him; his hand drifted to your hip, to your thigh, and you pushed back against him, making him gasp; he pulled back and his eyes were begging you to touch him more and—

and—

—and there was a sound in the distance—a cough, a breath—that startled you out of the trance where everything was _Saeran_ and _Saeran’s hands_ and _Saeran’s lips_. Slowly, hands on his chest, you turned toward the sound.

Oh.

Saeyoung was there: frozen in place at the far end of the hall, one hand still on the doorknob to his office. The world narrowed, in that moment, to just three things: you felt Saeran’s hands, one gripping your waist, one positioned dangerously on your inner thigh; you felt the hard wood frame against your back; and you saw Saeyoung’s face, eyes wide, wild, mouth slightly open. He was pale, like he’s just seen a ghost.

But he hadn’t seen a ghost. He’d seen _this_ ; and you only realized, then, just how it must look: Saeran’s hand on your thigh, parting your legs; your faces: pink cheeks, bright eyes.

You couldn’t quite put the expression you saw on Saeyoung’s face into words. Afraid, you thought. Exhilarated. Surprised. Needy. Miserable.

“Saeyoung…”

You dropped your hands; Saeran shifted beside you—and Saeyoung was gone. With the swiftness you were still not quite used to, he disappeared around the corner. You heard the door to the garage slamming: open and shut.

For a moment, neither you nor Saeran said anything. You could feel his eyes on your face, and you turned to him _._ He licked his lips, coughed softly. You put a hand to his face—it was hot.

“Are you okay?” you asked, always sensitive to his subtle shifts in temperature, always searching—perhaps needlessly—for any sign that he was feeling sick. A part of your heart still didn’t believe that he would tell you.

“I am,” he said, a hand on his chest. He was peering down the darkened hallway now as if the phantom of his brother was still standing there and would tell him what on earth was going on. “I’m not sure what just…” He trailed off. You took his hand: hot face, cool hands, as always.

“I think I should…go after him,” you said. You felt such a strange mixture of dread and longing.

Saeran nodded slowly. “You understand him better than I do,” he said.

You squeezed his hand. “There are things the two of you understand that I never will,” you told him. You weren’t talking about computers are programming languages—there were other things, subtle, vulnerable, frightening things, that only the two of them knew. Saeran pressed his lips to your forehead, just beside your eyebrow. “But I think, in this case…”

“Exactly.” There was a moment, then, when his green eyes flashed and you could see the pieces falling together in his brilliant mind. Then he turned from you and the moment passed.

Pressing a swift kiss to his cheek, you left him, making your way down the long hall. You pried open the door—you hadn’t heard a car engine, so Saeyoung was still somewhere in the garage. You tiptoed outside, though your feet still sounded so loud on the cold, concrete floor. You didn’t want to startle him.

_Not that I could sneak up on him even if I tried._

He wasn’t hard to find: he was leaning against the hood of one of his cars, a strange little silver one, and his face was in his hands. You supposed he felt safe here, the way Saeran did in his garden. They were so similar in this way, you thought—retreating to the places that made them comfortable when the people around them made them afraid.

“Saeyoung,” you said softly. He didn’t move; of course he already knew you were there. “I…”

_You what?_

Now that you had him here, in front of you, you found you had nothing at all to say. And you were _good_ with your words—your words had gotten you here, in the first place, to this magical reality where, against all odds, the people you loved were safe.

And yet…

Here, in the cold, musty-smelling garage, with Saeyoung in front of you—still, silent, face hidden—you had no words at all.

“Go back inside,” he said, sounding as though he had armed himself against you—you heard a battalion in his voice.

“I want to talk to you,” you said. This much you knew was true.

“But I don’t want to talk to you,” he answered. He dropped his hands from his face then; his glasses were pushed haphazardly up on top of his head. Without them, his eyes blazed—the anger you saw there frightened you.

But you’d been here before, borne the brunt of the unfounded anger of someone you cared about. Then, too, it was because he was so tormented by the way you made him feel.

You took a careful step toward Saeyoung; he bristled and you almost expected him to growl, warding you away like a wild animal.

“Saeyoung, please…” His shoulders were hunched; there were shadows under his eyes, more evident without his glasses. You wondered if his dreams had been like yours: frantic, yearning.

For a moment, you thought you had him—his eyes softened a little as you drew near; he leaned forward, almost as though he hoped you would hold him. Oh, but you wanted to.

You paused. He paused. A moment passed where you were certain that you could reach for him and he would let you, would fall into your arms and melt with you. And then the moment was gone.

Saeyoung crossed his arms; all the light left his eyes.

“I don’t think I should stay here,” he said.

“What?”

“I’m going to leave,” he repeated, sounding almost surprised, as though he was deciding it in that very moment. You felt that he was opening up your chest with those long fingers, reaching inside and taking hold of your heart.

“You can’t,” you said, too loud, and he glanced up at you, his eyes hard. You wanted to take that stupid, warm, hard, beautiful face in both your hands and…

_And what?_

And kiss him till he was breathless, till his eyes clouded over and he forgot who he was.

That stubborn little voice in your head, loud and almost corporeal now, cheered. But your heart was falling to pieces.

“I thought I would be able to do it,” he said—quieter, as if he wasn’t quite sure he wanted you to hear. “Living here with you. But I was wrong.”

“I…” You couldn’t find the right words. _I thought I would be able to do it_ , he’d said—so he’d known, all along, that it would be difficult for him. You clenched your hands, squeezing them together till they hurt—an old habit.

And then he was moving, taking advantage of your moment of weakness. He was opening the car door, sliding in. His expression was unreadable. He started the engine.

“Where are you…”

“I’m just going for a drive,” he said. Cold voice, cold eyes.

“You’ll be back, right?” you said. Your hands hurt.

He paused and you were afraid he was going to say _no, never_ , but instead he pulled out his phone, used it to open the garage door. He was backing out already, one arm thrown over the passenger seat ( _how you wished you were that stupid little leather seat_ ), when he finally answered you.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll be back. But…” _But._ “But I’ll leave for real, as soon as I can.”

The engine hummed softly and he was pulling down the driveway, looking anywhere but at your face. And he was driving away, fading away, and you said his name but he didn’t hear, or pretended not to. He was drifting, turning…gone.

He was gone.

Your legs were weak. Your heart was weak.

You let yourself sink to the ground, tucking your knees to your chest, sitting on the cold concrete.

And, alone in the big, empty garage, your mind formed the meaningless shapes and colors and sounds and fears into a concrete thought. At last. As though you’d known all along.

 _I love him_ , you thought, feeling so small here in the dark, surrounded by his cars and his tools and his scent and the memory of his cold, sad eyes. _I love him, don’t I?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, things REALLY start to get interesting...˚▱˚


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Saeran,” you said slowly, tongue feeling heavy, teeth feeling numb. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4, in which a long-awaited conversation finally takes place. This chapter is SFW!

Saeran found you there, on the floor of the garage. He knew you better than you knew yourself, so he didn’t need to ask if you were okay.

“Hi,” he said quietly, sinking to the ground beside you. You weren’t sure how long you’d been there; Saeran would have heard the car pull out, so it couldn’t have been long.

“Hi,” you said back.

You felt that the gaping Saeyoung-shaped hole in your chest was obvious, visible—Saeran had to see the way your heart had been laid bare.

“Did my brother…?” started Saeran, laying a hand on your shoulder. He didn’t finish the question; you wished he would. _Did your brother what?_

“He went out,” you said, which was true. Your lips formed the “he” in a new way, as if that “he” meant something different to you now than it had before. You supposed that it did; you wondered if Saeran could tell.

“I see.” He sat cross-legged beside you—always meeting you at your level, never pressing you, waiting for you with infinite patience. It made your heart ache.

“Saeran,” you said slowly, tongue feeling heavy, teeth feeling numb. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

His face gave nothing away. His eyes were light, here in the shadowy garage, glinting like sea glass. He nodded slowly, as if he’d known— _for god knows how long_ —that this moment would come.

_He knew you better than you knew yourself._

“Okay,” he said. “Where would you like to tell me?”

And of course Saeran would think of this. He understood how a place could make you feel, know that the air around you shaped the sound of your voice and the rhythm of your heart. You thought of Ray: there were so few places where he’d felt safe, so he’d taken you to the garden—because among the things he’d grown with his own hands, he was reminded that blood still ran through his veins.

“Let’s walk,” you said. And he leapt to his feet, nimble and silent, holding out a hand for you. You took it, of course.

Hand-in-hand, you walked to the security door, small and dark beside the much larger gate for cars. Wordlessly, Saeran typed in the code, and the door swung open with a low beep.

The area around the bunker wasn’t really meant for walking: Saeyoung had picked this place _because_ of how very difficult it was to access. The long paved driveway opened up into a dirt road, which weaved back and forth through the hills. There was no sidewalk, just tall pine trees on either side, scenting the air with their wonderful sharp tang. On the rare occasion that any cars _did_ come down this road, they sped.

So you stuck to the grassy area on the side of the road, worn down and muddy from cars swerving, taking the turns too fast. Another hazard Saeyoung had thought through, of course: he knew he could out-drive just about anybody who came looking for him here.

The tire tracks on the grass made the wild area walkable, if still a bit swampy. Saeran was sure-footed, of course, gripping your hand just tight enough to let you know that he was watching out for you (not that you needed a reminder).

You walked beside him silently, squeezing his hand a little, watching your feet so you didn’t trip. And you waited till the bunker was just a hulking monstrosity in the distance—till the pine-scented air overtook the lingering smell of Saeyoung—to say anything.

“Saeyoung,” you said slowly, conscious that it was the first time you’d said his name aloud since he’d driven away, aware of the way it tingled on your lips, “said that he might not stay here for much longer.”

You heard instantly the way Saeran’s breath changed. You peeked at his face; he looked windswept and a little sad. But not _surprised._

“Why?” he asked—too lightly. You could feel the anticipation underneath his skin.

“I think it’s…because of me.”

Sometimes words disappear as soon as they’re spoken, dissolving into the air. These words hung, swinging in front of your face like a mobile. You almost reached out a hand to brush them away, but you stopped yourself—not solid, just words.

Saeran was still walking, still facing forward—you couldn’t quite see his eyes, couldn’t gauge what he was thinking, and that made your heart sink. You didn’t think you could stand it if both of your beloved boys shut you out, today. A little voice in the back of your mind whispered _you deserve it_ and you pushed it back, as deep into the recesses of thought as it would go.

Saeran _never_ shut you out, not since leaving Mint Eye, not since he’d decided to fight for his freedom. He’d always laid himself bare before you, even when it had caused him pain.

_But you didn’t want to cause him pain._

“I thought,” he said slowly—and his words formed shapes in the air, too, wrapping around yours, tying pretty little knots around the _because_ and _of_ and _me_. “I thought it might be something like that.”

You couldn’t resist anymore. You stopped, needing to see his face; responsive to you as ever, he stopped too. He was looking down, not into your eyes. You felt sick.

“You knew that?” you asked him—not knowing just what you meant by _that_ , because what was it, exactly, that he knew? What was it that was happening, making your peaceful little universe spin round and round, splintering into a million tiny fragments?

Saeran looked up finally, and his eyes were piercing. There was something missing now, you realized, a sort of guard rail that had been there for days, without you noticing. His eyes were clearer now.

“Even after everything that’s happened,” he said—ah, he seemed so bright to you all of a sudden, almost blinding—“he’s my brother. It’s not too hard for me to see what he’s feeling.”

“And, uh…” Your hands were balled again; you tried with all your might to unfurl them. “And what is that?”

Saeran sighed. “Do you hear the way he laughs when you’re around?” Slowly, you shook your head—how could you? You’d never heard him laugh when you weren’t around. “Do you see the way his body changes when you come into the room?” Saeran asked. You lowered your eyes. That, you had seen.

You found you couldn’t speak.

“Ray knew,” Saeran continued: quickly, now, as if he’d wondered if he would ever have the chance to tell you these things. You could see Ray in his eyes, then, too—there was a sort of bitter loneliness there that you recognized. “He saw every word in the messenger. Ray was fed lies, but he knew his brother. He never forgot how to read him.”

“That long?” you muttered, voice thin. Saeran nodded.

And it was coming back to you now: the way Saeyoung’s voice had broken, sometimes, over the phone; the way he’d lingered in the hospital, elbow brushing yours, uncharacteristically still; the terror in his eyes last night, when he’d realized just how close he could get.

“I…” _I didn’t know. I did know. I didn’t know_ you _knew. I knew that too._ “I’m sorry,” you said.

Saeran shook his head; his gaze was steady. “Please, my love,” he said softly. “Don’t be sorry.”

“But I—” An engine revving cut you off; you were glad, because you hadn’t known what you would say next.

The car rounded the bend and you peered at it, heart leaping; at the same time, Saeran shifted instinctively, shielding you in case the car swerved. He walked you back into the shade of the trees, hands on your shoulders. You got a good look at the car: it was medium-sized and gray. Normal. Certainly not Saeyoung’s.

You sighed, feeling shaky. Saeran peered into your eyes.

“Did you think that was going to be him?” he asked quietly. He was too doting, too gentle. You didn’t deserve him.

“Yes,” you said, because the time for pretense was long gone.

Saeran hummed thoughtfully; you saw his muscles shift and, for a heart-stopping moment, thought he would turn away from you. Instead, he reached for your hand.

“If it had been him,” he said slowly—he was choosing each word carefully, thoughtfully, the gears in his magnificent mind spinning—“what would you have done?”

You laughed weakly. “If it had been him, he’d have been driving so fast I wouldn’t have even had time to wave hello.

Saeran played with your fingers; this was familiar, the way he rubbed his fingertips over your thumb joints, gently massaging away the tension you held there whenever you were afraid, or angry, or anxious.

“What I actually mean,” he said, eyes on your hands, face close, breath fast, “is do you love him, too?”

You’d expected this, of course; you’d dragged him out here with the intention of saying it all along. But it was something else entirely hearing him ask you outright. He was so direct at times like this—he’d never learned not to be, and it was one of the first things you’d adored about him.

“I love _you_ ,” you said, knowing it wasn’t an answer; needing him to remember.

“I know you do,” he said. He took your other hand, too; and there you were, at the side of the road, feet in the mud, faces shadowed by the pine trees. Holding both your hands. It looked, you thought, like a strange sort of ceremony. “I know,” he repeated, voice soft as the wind on your face. “But do you love him, too?”

The tears came then, the ones you’d been holding back for hours (days). It was like a dam breaking; in an instant, your cheeks were sticky, salt on your lips. The fragments of dreams and not-quite-dreams flickered behind your eyes, a pool of memories and fantasies: the way Saeyoung answered the phone, heart stutteringly-bright; the way you’d thought your chest would cave in when you’d heard he was gone; the desperate way you’d watched him sleep, yearning to squeeze him tight till he opened those sparkling eyes; the stomach-flipping closeness yesterday; the gaping hole in your heart.

“Yes,” you said.

The word didn’t hang in the air, this time: it burst like a soap bubble, showering you with glittering, incandescent specks of certainty.

And Saeran, hand still clutching yours, used his wrist to wipe the tears off your cheek.

“I kind of knew,” he said; each word fell from his lips like melting snow. “Thank you for telling me, my darling.”

Your eyes ached.

“Nothing needs to change,” you said. Your voice sounded tear-stained. “You’re still, ah…still my whole world.”

“You too,” he said. “You’re my whole world too.” He took his hands from yours; your heart stopped; he opened his arms for you.

Stepping into his arms, laying your head on his chest, was like slipping into a steaming, fragrant bath. He pressed his lips to the top of your head—they were as warm as his hands were cold.

Sometimes you thought that, at some point between meeting Ray and escaping Mint Eye, your heart and Saeran’s had fused into one. Your heart beat faster or slower if his did; you didn’t always know what he was feeling, but you know _when_ he was feeling.

This, you supposed, listening to his heart pounding in your ear, went both ways.

“You knew about this for a lot longer than I did, didn’t you?” you muttered wetly into his chest. His shirt was sticky with your tears.

“I don’t know about that,” he said; his sweet laugh made you cry harder, for some reason.

“Well,” you said. “I figured it out about an hour ago.”

He laughed again, louder. You hadn’t realized just how weak you felt until Saeran laughed.

“Then yes,” he said; you could hear his smile. “In that case, my sweet love, yes.”

“Saeran.” You were whining, you knew, wrapping your arms tight around his waist. “Saeran, what are we going to do?”

He let you squeeze him; you felt a hand in your hair, and he brushed through it, pulling apart each strand with those impossibly patient, unimaginably gentle fingers.

“What do you want to do?” he asked solemnly.

“I want to be with you,” you said. You squeezed him tighter, and he laughed again—his laugh was like a tonic, filling you up, stilling your racing mind.

“Don’t be silly,” he murmured. “You already have me.”

Lighter, lighter. His voice, his breath, his scent filled you up like a helium balloon.

“Okay then,” you said, pulling back enough to peer up into his shining eyes. “What else could I possibly want?”

“You tell me,” he said. His fingers curled in your belt loops.

He was teasing, but this was dangerous ground, treacherous. You arched your eyebrows as if to say _do you mean that_ and he nodded.

“If you want him,” he said quietly, “then you should have him, princess.”

You felt your mouth fall open. Your throat felt full, like you could scream, or laugh, or…

“I…” you tried; scratchy throat, gaping eyes. “He. Ah.”

“What was that, my love?” His eyes were playful, his nimble fingers skating over your waist. You couldn’t keep up. It was a dream, you thought, another of those fleeting, desperate, technicolor dreams, full of gentle smiles and laughing eyes.

“You’re teasing me,” you told him. “You don’t mean that.”

He shook his eyes soberly.

“I meant it,” he said. And then he was taking your hand again, threading his fingers through yours; and he was walking, pulling you along beside him. “I don’t know exactly how it would work,” he continued, as if discussing the garden, or what to make for dinner. “But it’s possible. It’s not unheard of.”

And as he walked, your heart raced (you knew his did, too).

“Saeran,” you said. “You, ah. Did you…research this?”

He squeezed your hand. “Of course, my love.”

You laughed, tearful.

“What…did you search for?” you asked. Oh, you were breathless; you giggled, clutching his hand, picturing him: your sweet, darling boyfriend, scanning for advice when you’d thought he was coding. “Like, ahh. I think my girlfriend likes my twin brother, help me?”

He was smiling, flushing, shaking his head. A lock of hair fell over his eyes.

“A surprisingly common search term,” he said.

“Saeran!”

He swung your clasped hands between your bodies like a kid on the playground. Energetic, delightful.

“It could work several different ways,” he was saying. “But I was thinking—”

“Saeran.”

“Yes?” He was so sensitive to your gestures, your tone of voice.

“I…” _What?_ “I…that you’ve thought about this is…I’m surprised, and happy. But that’s not…” You took a deep breath. His eyes were questioning. “None of that matters to me,” you said. “All I care about is…I mean, you. You’re…okay with all of this?”

Saeran paused in the shade of a huge tree. Its branches seemed to be reaching out in a permanent empty embrace.

“Would I be saying all this, if I wasn’t?”

“Yes,” you said. You put a hand on his chest: palm flat over his heart. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum_. “You’re not hurting yourself for my sake again. I thought I’d made that clear.”

He put his hand over yours. _Ba-dum. Ba-dum._

“If it were anyone else…” he said slowly, as though gathering his words from the air, “I would feel jealous. But in this case…” He hesitated; you watched him. _Ba-dum._ “I spent my whole life trying to run away from him,” he said. “Now, for some reason, this feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like it was meant to be this way from the start. Does that make any sense?”

“No,” you told him. “Yes.”

He laughed quietly; taking your hand again. The ahead curved, and he followed it.

“Which one is it?” he asked.

“Both,” you said.

You’d never walked this far from the bunker before. You rounded the bend, and your breath caught in your throat.

On the left, the road continued around the bend. On the right, the land fell sharply away, a low wooden railing the only barrier between you and an enormous drop, like a giant knife had cut a swath out of the land. You could see earth stretching out for ages: hills and pines, green and brown, earth and sky.

“Wow,” you said.

Saeran wound an arm around your waist.

“There’s so much here,” he said. He meant _this earth_ and _this road_ and _between you and me._

You could see rooftops in the distance, neat rows of little houses.

“It looks like a toy city,” you said. “I want to play with it.”

“You can,” he said, lips on your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. “You can have everything.”

You leaned into him, and he felt painfully, wonderfully alive beside you.

“I can, can’t I?” you whispered (starting to believe it).

* * *

By the time you returned home, the sun was sinking in the sky: it was a wonderful spring sunset, making even the dark, imposing bunker look almost ethereal. You half-expected to find Saeyoung there, but the silver car was still gone; Saeran squeezed your hand reassuringly, seeing you check the empty parking spot.

“He’ll be back,” he told you.

You made dinner together, like you usually did; ate together, like you always did. In spite of the way you’d felt earlier—on the road, in Saeran’s arms, gazing down at the beautiful city—now that you were in this house ( _his_ house), the air felt thick and cloying.

You and Saeran curled up on the couch together, a blanket draped over both of you. You tried to read, but you were skittish, glancing up every few seconds at the clock, the door, the cameras. Saeran brushed his lips against your forehead.

“He’ll wait till he thinks we’ve gone to bed,” he said quietly. “It’s what I would do.”

The clock ticked on and on and on.

Eventually, after minutes, or hours, or days, Saeran stood, stretching. There was a little triangle of smooth skin between the waistband of his pants and the bottom of his shirt as he stretched and, unable to resist, you leaned forward and kissed it. He smiled.

“I’m going to take a shower,” he said. “I won’t tell you not to wait up for him, but please come to bed if you get tired. Will you?”

You smiled and kissed him again, on the lips this time.

“I promise,” you told him.

“Do you know what you want to say to him?” Saeran asked, running a hand through his hair. You noticed as he did that there was the tiniest bit of red peeking out at the roots; you wondered if he’d noticed.

“I have absolutely no idea,” you said—and how strange to be discussing this with Saeran, how odd to act as though this was normal. How odd that it _felt_ normal.

“You’ll know when the times comes,” he said—with far too much confidence in you, as always. He kissed your eyebrow. You loved how he did this—giving kisses to various parts of your face, your body, with reverent attention, as if determined to make sure every single part of you knew how thoroughly it was loved. “I’ll be in our room,” he said.

“Be there soon,” you told him, kissing the tips of his fingers.

And then he was gone, and you were alone.

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

You tried to read but the words slipped and slid around in your mind; you dimmed the lights because they were hurting your eyes, using the app Saeyoung had installed on your phone to do it. It seemed to you that you could feel him through the screen as you messed with the little sliders he’d installed, lowering and raising the various colored LEDs in the room. How silly, you thought—but it was _his_ mind that had dreamt of it, _his_ hands that had typed the code. Oh, you were going mad.

Just when you thought maybe he wasn’t coming at all; just when you thought perhaps you should retreat to your bedroom (because plants grow when you look away and pots boil when you leave the room and people come home when you stop waiting for them), you heard the series of beeps that meant the garage gate unlocking.

Your heart fluttered in your fingertips; Saeran’s voice echoed in your mind.

_If you want him, then you should have him._

It was almost unbearable, now—like having something delicious dangled just out of reach. You clenched your fingers; remembered the way Saeran would gently massage them, pulling them apart. You tried to do it for yourself; gave up; ran them stiffly through your hair—as if he hadn’t been looking at you with your hair thrown up in a messy bun (and not the cute kind) for days. But it felt different, now.

And it was. Everything had changed.

Another series of beeps—the door from the garage to the bunker unlocking at the sound of his voice.

You held your breath.

An eternity passed.

Stars fell to the earth, died, and were re-born again.

The door opened.

Saeyoung stood in the doorway, blinking in the light.

Saeran was right, of course—he’d expected to come home to a dark house. His hair was mussed as though he’d been running his hands through it for hours; the dark garage behind him only made his cheeks appear paler, the shadows under his eyes more obvious. He stood perfectly still, barely breathing. His sharp gold eyes landed on your face.

“Oh,” he said.

He was still as stone; you thought you saw an impossible and wonderful future in his eyes.

“Saeyoung,” you said. His eyes widened at the tone of your voice, and you knew how you must sound to him: candy-sweet and yearning. “Come here.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And how odd, you thought: this wasn’t at all how you’d pictured it. He stood stiffly over you, looking at you with miserable eyes; you were curled into the couch feeling panicked and a little queasy. But at last you had him here before you, burning as brightly as he always did in your dreams, and there was absolutely nothing holding you back anymore.
> 
> You sat up on your knees, and he audibly gulped. You realized, then, that he could feel the heaviness in the air after all.
> 
> “Saeyoung,” you said, and his name carried the weight of the universe. “There’s something I want to try. Will you let me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we have our resolution to last week's cliffhanger! 
> 
> This chapter is SFW. And stay tuned because next week's chapter...will NOT be ;)

Saeyoung drifted into your orbit impulsively, instinctively, like he’d meant to all along.

His hands swung by his sides; you could see that he was dissolving, taut muscles melting, feet leading him toward you (as if he knew better).

You sat perfectly still, waiting—knowing, somehow, that he would come to you: knees tucked up to your chest, fingers raw from being chewed.

“I thought,” he said—his voice was throaty, like he might’ve been crying—“you’d be asleep by now.”

“I’m not.”

He hesitated, gaze wavering. He was caught off guard, you could tell, having expected to find the house empty—having planned to creep back to his room undetected.

It was too late for that now. And he didn’t know, you thought, how the air in the room had changed when he’d entered it; he had no idea how huge he loomed in your mind.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a low voice. He stood over you, lingering awkwardly, feet shuffling. Even in the dark room, his face was lit up by the glowing string of LEDs—you could see every shadow, every crease, every telltale streak. “I’m sorry about how I acted earlier.”

“Don’t be,” you said—and you heard Saeran in your mind, reassuring you, and you thought (not for the first time) that you and Saeyoung had more in common than he gave you credit for. “I get it.”

“You do?” His fingers drummed against his leg; again, you were reminded of Saeran. They were hopeless, the two of them—brilliant minds spinning, restless fingers twitching. You wished you could stick your hands into their brains and unravel their labyrinthine dreams.

“I do,” you said, peering into his face, where exhaustion and bitterness were written into every line and curve and shadow. You wanted to burn away all his doubts. You wanted to still those trembling hands.

And how odd, you thought: this wasn’t at all how you’d pictured it. He stood stiffly over you, looking at you with miserable eyes; you were curled into the couch feeling panicked and a little queasy. But at last you had him here before you, burning as brightly as he always did in your dreams, and there was absolutely nothing holding you back anymore.

You sat up on your knees, and he audibly gulped. You realized, then, that he could feel the heaviness in the air after all.

“Saeyoung,” you said, and his name carried the weight of the universe. “There’s something I want to try. Will you let me?”

An expression crossed his face that you’d never seen before: a sort of dark, lonely hunger that made your bones hum.

“Wh-what is it?” He was fiddling with the frayed cuffs of his sleeves, and you could hear his breath.

You couldn’t, couldn’t, couldn’t. You were scared; you were not scared. You knew how it felt to do battle for love. You were full of anxiety and absolutely, unequivocally sure.

“I would like to kiss you,” you said. “May I?”

He stumbled backwards; the energy that radiated off him was somehow familiar to you—that startling amalgam of misery and desire.

“Saeran,” he gasped. You understood what he meant.

“Saeran,” you repeated (tasting his name in your mouth—like coming home), “knows.”

Saeyoung froze—baffled, floored—lips parted inadvertently, as if anticipating the kiss he’d never believed would come. You drank him in, all of him—worn sweatshirt, old jeans; tired, desperate eyes. He looked absolutely destroyed, and you knew you were to blame.

“He…uh…what?” His voice shook. You reached for him, touched him ( _at last_ ), cupping his cheek with your hand. His skin blazed; you felt old scars, invisible and rough against your palm.

“Please?” 

And he was drifting nearer, dreamlike; you thought you could hear his heartbeat, or perhaps it was your own.

“I don’t know how to, um…I—I w-want to,” he muttered. You’d never heard him like this before: stammering and disarmed.

“Thank god,” you said.

You caught a stray curl that had drifted onto his cheek between your fingers, and he groaned; you shifted closer. You could practically taste him like this: that sweet-spicy scent that had been haunting you for days, and gasoline, and the fresh, biting air.

It happened slowly.

You closed the distance bit by bit, giving him every opportunity to back out—but he didn’t move a muscle. Your hand tangled in his hair, and he shuddered. And then you were there: a breath away, and in that moment there was nothing but your bounding heart and the sound of the ocean in your ears, an intangible energy that screamed _finally._

And you kissed him.

_Kissed him_ , longing lips meeting fearful ones, rough and tender and frightening and sure. Galaxies colliding; starfall.

Then his hands were moving, reaching for you, scrabbling at your waist. You pulled back to catch your breath and saw his face: he looked utterly wrecked.

“O-oh,” he said hoarsely.

And then something snapped: you saw it in his eyes, the way his carefully constructed fortress collapsed before you. And he was on you, surging, exploring; hands at your waist, body pressing you roughly into the couch. Then he was kissing you again, clumsy and innocent, ragged breath and impatient lips.

“Saeyoung!” You panted his name, and his hands gripped your waist too hard (wonderful) and his lips crashed into yours (feverish). He’d gotten his whole body onto the couch somehow and he was twisting, bending you back into the pillows; his hands were running up your sides, his lips parting, needy fingers digging into your skin: bruising and intoxicating.

He was wonderfully solid on top of you; his hips stuttered against yours and his inexperienced lips quested, arms shaking as he let himself be carried away. You curled your fingers in the fabric of his sweatshirt, pulling him flush against you; his knees fell on either side of your body, pressing into your sides.

You said his name again, in between desperate kisses, breathy and adoring; he pulled back, eyes swimming. You swept his glasses off his face in one easy motion and he gasped, as if this catapulted him back into reality.

“You have no idea,” he breathed, eyes dark, fingers digging into your hips, “how much I’ve thought about this. How long I’ve—”

“I sort of do know,” you said, hands flat on his chest, catching your breath. “Saeran told me.”

“Saeran…told…” His mouth fell open, and he sat up, shakily, still straddling you. He looked like he didn’t know what had hit him. “He, uh. What?”

God, you didn’t want to stop kissing him. But, you thought, you definitely owed him a conversation. An explanation. A— _something_.

“Do you wanna, uhh…” Your gaze trailed down his body, lingering on his hips, still pressed into yours—back up to his face, which was slowly turning a deep fuchsia.

“God. Sorry.” He climbed off you then folded himself into the couch beside you—not quite touching. You sat up, and it was then that you realized you were in the very same positions you’d been in when you’d fallen asleep on his shoulder, just the night before. A hundred lifetimes ago.

“I mean, honestly, I’d rather…” You peeked at him from under your eyelashes; he’d folded his hands in his lap as if to resist the urge to touch you. _Touch me. Please touch me._ “But I should probably tell you what, uh, what is…”

“Yeah.” He started down at his hands. There was no bravado now, now joking or false confidence; you’d peeled back another layer of 707, you thought, revealing more of the vulnerable, tormented boy who lived underneath.

“What you said in the garage today really hurt,” you told him. You mimicked him, facing forward, as if the two of you were watching something suspended in the air before you, rather than looking at each other.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. His knee bounced anxiously; you wanted to lay a hand on his leg, to soothe him. _Not yet._

“What hurt the most was that you said you wanted to leave,” you told him—and now that you’d started talking about this, you felt you had to get it all out immediately or run away forever. _Like he’d tried to._ “It made me realize that, uh…” _I love you._ “That I couldn’t stand it if you were gone.”

He shifted in his seat and you could feel his eyes on you, like he was trying to burn a hole through your skull, peer into your mind.

“I don’t know how I should feel about that,” he said. His voice was weak, like you were breaking him.

“I talked to Saeran about it,” you said, feeling that time was moving in slow motion. He was gazing at you unabashedly now; you felt that, at some point in the last few minutes (or days, or weeks), he’d put his whole life in your hands. “He wasn’t surprised, actually. He told me that…that he thought you…”

Saeyoung froze. 

You heard him take a breath: slow and unsteady.

“That he thought I what?”

“That he, uh. He thought that you…might…” This was it. _Help_ , you thought frantically; you pictured Saeran, shining eyes and soft, cold hands. “…that you might love me,” you said.

“Oh.” You saw Saeyoung lift a hand as though he thought he could catch the words as they fell from your lips, carry them off and hide them away. It was too late for that now. “Well,” he said slowly, as if in a trance, “yeah.”

Without meaning to, you reached for him, caught his hand in mid-air and held it. There were little scars here, too. These boys, with their clever, ravaged hands—they haunted your dreams.

“Do you really?” you asked him.

You felt it in your whole body as he exhaled, tremulous and fearful, like he was unburdening himself of a weight he’d carried for a long time.

“I didn’t do a very good job of hiding it, huh?”

“If it helps, _I_ didn’t know.”

He laughed bitterly; his fingers beat an unsteady rhythm against yours.

“I thought it would be fine,” he said slowly. “I didn’t realize that living with you would be so much of…um, you.”

You couldn’t help the way your lips twitched up at that. This poor, sweet, wonderful boy.

“Saeyoung,” you said, squeezing his hand.

“I should have been more careful,” he muttered. “I didn’t want to get in the way of—”

“Saeyoung.”

“Yeah?” The way he perked up when you said his name was familiar, adorable—how had you never noticed before?

“Me too,” you said.

“No.” He was shaking his head frantically, tugging his hand from yours. “No. You can’t. You love Saeran. He loves you. He _needs_ you. I—I’m not…”

“Listen to me.” You put your hands on his face, forcing him to look at you; he was already half-off the couch, ready to run again. You weren’t letting him get away this time. “I _do_ love Saeran. I’m never gonna stop loving him.”

“Wh-what?” Saeyoung sank back onto the couch, and his eyes were wild. You had the strong impression that he could only take so much more of this. 

“I love Saeran,” you repeated. “And it seems like I…love you. Also.” Saeyoung had stopped breathing. “And Saeran knew that—before I did, actually—and now you know it too, and this isn’t exactly how I planned for things to turn out, but they did, and here we are, and for the love of god, would you please just let me be happy?”

Saeyoung didn’t move a muscle, but his eyes were screaming your name.

“We are going to be happy, dammit,” you said.

“You…” said Saeyoung. He had run out of words.

So you kissed him again.

Oh, and the second time was different, warmer. You weaved your fingers into his hair and his trembling hands drifted to your waist. He was better prepared this time, too, and he let you take the lead, molding his lips to yours; and suddenly you were moving, and without knowing entirely how it happened you were in his lap, back arching as he wrapped his arms all the way around you, holding you like he was sure you’d disappear if he let go.

Kissing Saeyoung was like the the searing midday sun on bare skin.

You felt yourself fading, your very consciousness disappearing into your all-consuming need to feel close to him; you pressed your body into his and he groaned, his hips twitching frantically under yours.

And then his hands were on your shoulders and he was stopping it, pulling back, gasping for air. His face, you thought, was the most beautiful thing you’d ever seen: red cheeks, swollen lips, drunken eyes.

“I—I can’t,” he panted, dizzy eyes roving over your face. “I-if we keep…I’m gonna get…carried away.”

“So get carried away,” you told him. You couldn’t think straight; you slid a hand down his chest, dipping under his t-shirt. He yelped.

“N-no, I uhhhh…” he stammered. “I w-want to…oh god, but I…we need to…”

Slowly, the pieces fell into place in your mind: there was more to discuss. So much more to establish, to work out. Nothing about this was simple. But your head spun; but you wanted…

“Yeah,” you said. “You’re right.” You slipped off his lap, not missing the regret that passed through his eyes, and for a moment, neither of you said anything. Then, slowly, he stood up, and you could see that he was still shaky, his legs weak. You saw other things too: evidence of how badly he wanted you, obvious even through his loose jeans. Briefly, you considered teasing him about it, but perhaps this wasn’t the time. 

“I need to go, uh…I think I’m going to go run around the bunker a few times,” he said, looking down. You giggled.

“If that’s what you need to do.”

“I, uh…we need to all talk to each other,” he muttered, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “The three of us. Don’t we?”

“That,” you said, unable to suppress another giggle, “is going to be something.”

At last, he smiled, and you found yourself relaxing a little. You’d walk to the ends of the earth to see him smile. “Breakfast tomorrow?”

He chuckled, meeting your eyes. “Gonna be a weird breakfast.”

He was backing away already, one hand groping behind him for the doorknob. Reflexively, you reached for him, grabbing his sleeve.

“Wait,” you said, and he froze. You got to your feet, bracing yourself against his shoulder—and you kissed him. 

It was tender, this time. A ghost of a kiss. A whispered promise.

You pulled away and he stumbled; for a moment, you thought he’d abandon his resolve and take you into his arms again. You were pretty sure he thought so too.

Then he was reaching for the doorknob, cheeks red again; and he was already half-gone, fiery hair disappearing into the dark garage.

“Goodnight, Saeyoung,” you whispered into the air. His name echoed in the silence.

* * *

You’d gotten used to making breakfast for the twins; it had become a habit. You loved the way Saeyoung’s big kitchen felt in the morning: airy and warm, like it had been waiting for years for somebody to make good use of it.

Today was different, though.

It had never felt quite like this before.

Saeran was beside you, using a spatula to expertly flip eggs around in a pan (you’d never quite figured out how to do it the way he did—it was just _better_ ). Saeyoung—unsurprisingly—had yet to appear.

It felt peaceful, in the kitchen with Saeran—normal, even, almost like any other morning. You made the coffee (only for you, as always: neither brother had any interest, no matter how much sugar you put in it), enjoying the friendly bubbling sound of the coffee maker. You hummed to yourself; your skin was buzzing.

It was the subtle change in Saeran’s posture that alerted you to Saeyoung’s appearance in the doorway. You spun, coffee filter in hand; suddenly, your breath was shallow, like you’d just run a marathon.

“Oh,” you said. “Hi.”

He leaned against the doorframe, the hood of his favorite sweatshirt pulled over his head, his red curls spilling messily out onto his forehead. He looked moderately well-rested (for him, anyway); his eyes went to you right away and you saw the way they lingered on your lips. The intensity of his gaze made your toes curl in your socks.

“Morning,” he said, in a stiff sort of voice, like he’d practiced it.

“So,” said Saeran nonchalantly, tossing chives into the pan with one hand, “you two kissed last night, huh?”

Saeyoung made a mysterious spluttering noise, like he was choking on air; immediately, you felt your cheeks flush.

“Saeran!”

He shrugged but you could see the way his lips quirked up; for some reason you couldn’t possibly begin to unravel, he was _enjoying_ this.

Saeyoung was still sputtering, trying to form words; you took one look at his bright red face and panicked expression and understood exactly what Saeran was taking so much pleasure in. The ease between them was recent, tremulous; and how rare for Saeran to have the upper hand. What a strange and unexpected twist, for Saeran to be the one teasing his brother. And for a moment, you thought—as Saeran smiled and Saeyoung tried valiantly to collect himself—they really _did_ seem like brothers. Almost as if they hadn’t lost so many precious years; almost as if they’d grown into adults together, after all.

“Yes,” you confirmed—having already told Saeran, but also having planned to ease into the group conversation a little more gracefully. You locked eyes with Saeyoung; he still looked terrified, and you almost wanted to take pity on him. 

“Yeah,” Saeyoung said at last, still staring at you as though pleading for guidance. You bit your lip to keep from smiling.

“Nice,” said Saeran. 

Saeyoung looked like he was trying to catch his breath. You poured water into the coffee maker, giving him time. He coughed, eyes flitting back and forth between you and his brother.

“That’s…you, uh…knew that?” he managed; he was drowning, you thought, and you were tempted to go to him, wrap your arms around him and press your lips to his jaw.

You had a feeling that he might absolutely die of sheer awkwardness and confusion, if you did.

“Yes,” said Saeran simply. He salted the eggs, tasted them. Cocked his head to the side as if most of his attention was on the food (though you knew, of course, it wasn’t). 

“Okay,” said Saeyoung. He came into the kitchen, then, draping his arms over the counter; he always did this, filling the available space like a liquid. “Uh…”

“It _was_ nice,” you supplied, turning your back to start the coffee. Saeran chuckled, soft enough that only you could hear. “Though I think I scared him a little.”

Saeyoung made another strange squeaking sound and Saeran laughed, louder this time, crossing to the fridge. On his way, he dropped his lips to your shoulder, kissing you through your sweatshirt.

“I wasn’t scared!” protested Saeyoung. He stood straight now, taking it all in: Saeran’s casual kiss, the radiant way you smiled at the both of them. He shook his head as if trying to clear it, making his hair fall into his eyes.

You laughed: you couldn’t help it. He was adorable like this, helpless and overwhelmed; Saeran’s calm countenance wasn’t helping. The whole situation, you thought, was hopelessly, impossibly bizarre (but you couldn’t stop smiling).

“So,” you said slowly; they both perked up at the sound of your voice, gold eyes and green zeroing in on you. “This is what we’re doing, isn’t it.”

Saeyoung hesitated; looked at Saeran. Thoughtfully, Saeran nodded.

“Sorry for teasing you,” he said to his brother; Saeyoung just flushed a shade darker. “I’ve actually thought about this a lot. She is the most wonderful person in the world. Of course you would love her.”

Saeyoung was, once again, speechless.

“I want…” you said, and in spite of your certainty, your voice shook. “I know it’s selfish…”

“It’s not,” Saeran said and “Not at all,” said Saeyoung. Both pairs of eyes were still fixed on your face; you felt uncomfortably warm.

Hopelessly adored.

You took a deep breath.

“I want to be with both of you,” you said, squeezing your hands together, holding your breath. White knuckles, clear mind. “I know how it sounds, but…”

“Yes,” said Saeran, immediately and unwaveringly. He’d been thinking about it for so much longer than you had, and his confidence made you calm.

“I…” said Saeyoung. He looked at you; he looked at his brother; he tapped his fingers erratically against his leg. “ _Me?_ ” he asked finally; you grinned.

“Yeah,” you told him. “Still don’t believe me?”

You crossed to him and grasped his shaking hand, interlacing your fingers. His palm was hot. And the coffee wasn’t made yet, and the eggs were probably burning, and you noticed, for some reason, that there was a little hole in your sock, right above your pinky toe.

“How is this gonna…”

“We’ll figure it out,” you said. You knew this was uncharted territory, far from the future you’d envisioned for yourself before Ray had brought you to Mint Eye; or as you’d been escaping; or as you’d been fighting for your life, and theirs.

_But was it, really?_

What sort of future _had_ you imagined?

Now, when you thought about your life, all you could see was white hair and red; a rough hand in each of yours; a soft laugh and a louder one. The three of you standing here together in the big, bright kitchen.

Saeyoung shook his head, eyes shining. There was something in the air: a spark of possibility. A willingness to venture into the unknown. 

“Okay,” Saeyoung said finally; and he bumped his hip against yours, giving your hand a squeeze. “Okay. Yeah. I’m in.” He laughed, bubbling and infectious. “How could I possibly not be?”


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of a sudden, you were conscious of the little things about Saeyoung that you never dared to notice: the curvy little shadows his curls made on his forehead; the corner of his jaw and the way you imagined it would feel against your lips; the shape of his shoulders, strong and distinct, even through his too-big hoodie; the tiniest glimpse of the waistband of his jeans as he shifted, a bit uncomfortably. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.
> 
> _Why have you been avoiding me?_ you wanted to say. _Do you really love me? Do I scare you? Do you want to touch me right now?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really, I say I have no self-control, but I made it to to chapter six before writing a sex scene with Saeyoung, and that's an honest-to-god miracle. This chapter is NSFW!

You were losing your mind. You were sure of it.

It was late morning, and the air had that sort of dull, rounded-edges feeling. You were still in bed, blankets tucked up around your legs; you could hear Saeran moving around in the en suite bathroom, turning on the shower—these sounds were soothing to you, a reminder of his day-to-day existence.

But in spite of all the comforting things around you: the soft blankets, the slept-in-late haziness, the shower like a private rainforest in the corner of your awareness—you felt almost unbearably frustrated.

You glanced down at your phone, which you’d just tossed into your lap with a combination of annoyance and confusion. There was the message again—it would have been charming, under different circumstances.

“Good morning, babe,” Saeyoung had texted you, followed by a little string of heart emojis. Then another message: “Guess what I dreamed about~?”

You threw the phone aside again: he was messing with your head, and you didn’t know why.

It had been this way for three days, ever since the conversation in the kitchen. You weren’t quite sure what you’d expected of him—more easeful interactions, perhaps, more natural touches between you—but it seemed you had been decidedly incorrect. If anything, since that kiss in the dark living room, Saeyoung had seemed even more reticent to touch you than before. As always, the three of you ate together, curled onto the couch together to watch movies in the evening—but still, he draped himself awkwardly over one arm of the couch, as far from you as possible; but still, you felt his eyes on you from across the room (but when you peeked, he’d pointedly look away).

It wasn’t that you’d expected to dive headfirst into the level of easy intimacy you already had with Saeran—it wasn’t that you’d thought everything would change over night.

But you’d thought—perhaps foolishly—that _something_ would change.

And, to be fair, one thing had: he’d started texting you again, just like he had in the past (weeks ago—a million years ago). For some reason, he was still using the RFA messenger, so the texts came from 707 and not Saeyoung, which in and of itself was confusing. But the strangest part of all was that in his texts, he was—it seemed to you—a different person entirely.

While the Saeyoung you lived with was restrained, smiling at you hesitantly from the other side of the room (and flinching when you came close), the 707 in your phone seemed to absolutely adore you. His texts were as delightfully, disastrously flirtatious as you could possible have hoped for. “Miss you,” he’d text as soon as you left the room. “I’m lonely now. Mwah~” And just when you’d caught your breath he’d text again to tell you that he’d counted the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling (there were 172) and named them all after you.

It was too much for your poor heart, you thought—you felt weak all the time; he was giving you whiplash. _What_ , you wanted to demand, _are you trying to do to me?_ But he’d managed never to be alone with you since that fateful encounter the other night—managed to put his walls back up, one at a time, locking you out.

Shivering (why was this stupid house always _so cold_?), you read his good morning texts again, sighing heavily. _Tell me this to my face, then_ , you thought about texting back; or better yet, _come here and kiss me again, dammit._

The bathroom door opened.

“Why,” said Saeran, “do you look like you’re about to charge into battle, my love?”

You looked up at him: his hair was mussed and still a little bit damp, and he had on one of the many soft t-shirts you’d bought on your last trip into town. Gradually, he was starting to build up a wardrobe all his own—clothes he’d picked for himself—and still, every time you saw him in these things, you wanted to throw your arms around him and kiss every bit of his face.

You laughed, tossing your phone aside; he followed it with his eyes, observant as ever.

“Oh, did my brother do something weird?” He came to you, perching on the edge of the bed. Saeran in the morning was like cotton candy, you thought: light as air, melt-on-your-tongue soft.

“He didn’t do anything,” you said. “That’s actually…sort of the problem.”

And _god_ , you thought frantically, _what I need is a guidebook on how to talk to my boyfriend about my relationship troubles with my other maybe-boyfriend who is also his twin brother._

Too bad there was no such thing—at least, you were pretty sure there wasn’t.

Saeran ran a hand through his hair; the red showing through at the roots was even more obvious, now. You still hadn’t said anything about it.

“He didn’tdo something weird? Now _that_ I’m surprised to hear.”

As always, Saeran’s presence—his very existence—made you calmer. Sighing again, you handed him the phone so he could read the messages that were still open on your screen.

Saeran read the messages twice; he raised his eyebrows and the corners of his lips twitched like he was trying not to smile. He made a little humming sound—his expression was unreadable.

“He really is trying his best, isn’t he?” he said at last, eyes dancing with amusement.

“ _Is_ he?”

As you often had before, you wished you could get just a little peek inside both their minds—hack the hackers, unravel their secrets.

Saeran, at least, would let you.

He cocked his head to the side: you could see him trying to form the words, to give shape to his feelings. You reached for his hand and squeezed it.

“It’s bothering you that he’s acting one way in his texts and another way in person, right?” Saeran asked. You shouldn’t have been surprised that he got it, but you were, a little. It wasn’t exactly a predictable situation.

“Yeah,” you said. “I sort of thought, I mean…”

“Well,” said Saeran. He lifted your hand to his lips, kissed the tip of your pinky finger. “He’s terrified, you know.”

“He’s…of _me_?”

Saeran laughed, shifting so he could lean over and rest his head on your shoulder. His hair was still a little wet, but you didn’t mind—he smelled clean and fresh, like jumping into a clear blue lake in summer. You pressed your lips to his temple.

“He’s not scared of you, sweetheart,” Saeran said. “He’s scared of everything. You have to remember that he’s never been close to anybody before.”

And there was a twinge of bitterness in his voice, a familiar hint of darkness glittering under the surface. It wasn’t that you forgot, of course, the weight the brothers bore—the vast neglect they’d endured. But they were so present, nowadays—so warm and solid and certain—that sometimes it was easy to feel like it had always been this way.

But it hadn’t been, of course. It was still brand new to both of them: affection. Companionship. Intimacy.

_Intimacy._

“Um, Saeran?”

He hummed in response, draping an arm over your lap, turning his head so his lips grazed your shoulder.

“Do you think he’s also scared about, uh…?

And Saeran understood, of course. He always did.

“Probably, yes,” he said.

“Do you think he’s ever…?”

“Oh.” Saeran chuckled, shaking his head against your shoulder. “No. No, definitely not.”

There was so much more to all of this than sex, of course—so much more to desire, so much more to be frightened of. But you knew, too, that it was present all the time, hovering over you, unspoken. You couldn’t forget the way Saeyoung’s eyes had looked the other night, or the way his fingers had scrabbled at your waist as though your body was the only thing tying him down to this earth.

“About that…” you said slowly. You fiddled with the edge of Saeran’s shirt, worrying the soft fabric between your fingers. You felt shy, all of a sudden; you were glad his face was buried in your shoulder, glad he couldn’t see the way your cheeks inevitably flushed. “When—or, you know, if—that happens,” you continued, biting your lip. “Do you want to, um. Would you like to know?”

And you knew Saeran had already given this some thought; he’d shown you the folders upon folders on his computer, the information he’d saved, the research he’d done. He was nothing if not thorough. This was, you thought, why he was a better hacker than his brother (though you’d never say so out loud).

“Yes,” he said slowly, lips moving against your skin. “Yes, I think I’d like to know. Not the details, necessarily. Just…that it happened.”

“So, like, second base, third base…?” you giggled; he snorted, wrapping both arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest.

“Please, no,” he purred, nuzzling his face into your hair. “I can live without the baseball metaphors. Just be honest with me, my darling.”

“I always am.”

His breath was warm on your neck. You sank into him, muscles relaxing; for all that he appeared fragile, he could support you. There was so much still to figure out, it seemed (you really _could_ use that guidebook). The time would come. For the moment, you were content to curl your body around Saeran’s, his face against your shoulder and your arms around his waist.

Waiting for you in the daytime world, there were fears to be faced, feelings to be untangled. For now, you could afford to live in the hazy late morning world a little longer: soft and indistinct, liminal and safe.

* * *

The daytime world, it turned out, was relatively uneventful—bright and sharp and unchanging. Saeyoung didn’t acknowledge the unanswered texts from the morning; once again, it seemed as if the 707 who lived in your phone and the Saeyoung who lived in your house were distinct entities. But you caught him gazing at you as you were washing dishes; saw the ways his hands shook as he folded himself into the couch. They were the same—you just needed to stitch them together, somehow.

It was evening by the time you found an excuse to talk to him.

Saeran had gone to check on his garden, kissing you swiftly on the cheek and murmuring something under his breath that sounded like “good luck.” And by the time you looked up, Saeyoung had retreated, the door of his room shutting behind him with a loud, definitive _click_.

You waited, counting in your head: one, two, three, four…

Your phone buzzed.

“Help meeee!” he texted. “You were so cute just now I thought my heart was gonna stop.”

Ah-ha. So quick: almost as though he’d been waiting all day to say it.

You paced back and forth, alone in the dimly lit living room. This was it—your window of opportunity.

“Oh yeah?” you texted back. “And did it?”

“Yeah!!!!” he said—an immediate response. You pictured him clearly: sprawled across his bed, fingers tapping away at his phone. Just a few seconds’ walk away, really; just a wall between you. Unbearable.

Another message: “Heart stopped completely,” he said. “I’m dead now. X_X”

You loved him so much your heart could burst.

“Need me to revive you?” you wrote—oh, and it was so easy, talking to him like this. So natural. _If only…_

“God!” he texted. And then another text: “Uhhhh nope.” Another: “I mean, yes.” Another: “Please.”

Your heart fluttered.

“Soooooo…” you wrote.

He responded instantly: a long row of question marks.

“Well,” you wrote. “The thing is, I can’t bring you back to life like this. It would need to be in person.” You screwed your eyes shut as you sent it. Now or never.

There was a pause this time; then several messages in quick succession. “Aahhhh,” he wrote. Then: “Lolololol.” Then: “Ya.”

Well, it wasn’t exactly a grand declaration of affection, or a desperate plea to see you—but it was _something_.

Before you could stop yourself, you walked the couple of paces to his door; raised one hand and knocked, perhaps too hard. You heart him moving around and the sound did something to you: it was knowing that he was alone in there—it was the anticipation of being invited in. Your blood felt scalding hot in your veins.

He opened the door. He had that same sort of messy, caught-off-guard look he’d had the other night: like he wasn’t sure what to do with his face; like he thought you might be a figment of his imagination, after all.

“Hi,” he said—and there was none of the boldness of 707 in his features now; he was all soft eyes and pink cheeks.

“Hi,” you replied.

He stepped aside to let you in,

And suddenly—for the first time in ages—you were in his bedroom.

When you and Saeran had stayed in this room together, there had been a distinct air of sadness—the untouched bed had felt almost ghostly and the bright decorations had just reminded you of everything you were afraid of losing.

The room felt warmer now that its occupant was decidedly, tangibly alive—standing next to you, practically vibrating. But it still had that sort of mysterious energy: a palpable heartbeat quality to the air. Maybe this was simply the way Saeyoung inhabited a space; maybe it was because of the way you felt about him.

“Can I, uhh…”

You gestured vaguely at the bed; and it was strange, you thought, for this boy who left half-built robots humming strangely on every available surface to always make his bed with such alarming precision. But this fit, too—another piece in the jigsaw puzzle of his contradictory identities.

He took a few uncertain steps toward you, then perched on the edge of the bed. Not quite meeting your eyes, he patted the spot beside him. You sat, and the mattress creaking under you sounded unnaturally loud—like perhaps it could be heard from outer space.

All of a sudden, you were conscious of the little things you never dared to notice: the curvy little shadows his curls made on his forehead; the corner of his jaw and the way you imagined it would feel against your lips; the shape of his shoulders, strong and distinct, even through his too-big hoodie; the tiniest glimpse of the waistband of his jeans as he shifted, a bit uncomfortably. You couldn’t tear your eyes away.

_Why have you been avoiding me?_ you wanted to say. _Do you really love me? Do I scare you? Do you want to touch me right now?_

“I’ve always liked that sweatshirt,” you said instead (hating yourself). “You wear it a lot.”

He laughed: high-pitched, awkward and unbearably charming.

“I’ve had it forever,” he said. He twisted the edge of the sheet between his fingers: shifting, touching, twisting. Tactile—always.

“It looks warm,” you said. You’d thought this before—wondered how the thick fabric would feel against your arms; dying to be absorbed by him.

“It is!” This was easier territory, it was clear—he bounced a little, making the bed rock. Reminding you that you were here: next to him, on his bed. You noticed that he’d closed the door.

“It’s always cold in this house,” you told him. Were you intentionally deluding him, steering the conversation the way you wanted it to go—reeling him in like a fish, flopping hopelessly at the end of your hook?

“Oh!” he said, eyes shining. “Do you wanna try it on, then?”

You pictured yourself in a cute little fishing hat, pulling him from the water: disheveled red hair and glittering eyes.

“Sure,” you said, with all the nonchalance you could muster. You couldn’t suppress a giggle—you felt victorious.

And he was up, tugging off the sweatshirt with perhaps too much enthusiasm. _The fish_ , you thought wildly _, comes willingly._

He handed you the sweatshirt, not quite meeting your eyes. You stood, too, feeling that this was somehow momentous—knowing you were avoiding the conversation you needed to have (but also that you were somehow heading in the right direction).

You slipped one arm into a sleeve and were immediately hit with the same spicy scent that had been tormenting you for days. His very essence was somehow infused into every stitch of the thick, soft fabric—it felt as though he was offering himself to you.

Which was, of course, exactly what you wanted.

You pulled on the other sleeve, leaving the jacket unzipped. The sleeves were too long, hanging over your hands. You felt small, like he’d let you wrap yourself up in him—your thoughts were fuzzy.

You met his eyes; there, you saw that hard look again—the way he’d looked at you right after you’d kissed him, before you’d felt him snap. Before he’d succumbed to you.

_Snap_ , you silently begged. _I want you to._

“O-oh,” he stammered, eyes roving unabashedly over your body (you felt a sort of pricking sensation low in your belly as he drank you in with his eyes). “Y-you look, um…”

“Do I look cute?” you asked, giving him a little twirl. Reeling, reeling.

“Y-yeah,” he muttered. He took a hesitant step toward you; his eyes burned your skin. “You’re so cute I could…I might…”

“What?”

He took another step. His hands twitched at his sides.

“But you, uh…you have to…” And then he was close enough to touch you and his hands—angular, nimble, incredibly powerful—were reaching for you.

You held your breath.

Then his hands were on the fabric, the bottom of the sweatshirt, and—ah, he was zipping it up, slowly, slowly, hands trailing almost reverently over your body, never quite touching. Trembling.

“Thanks,” you said.

He zipped it all the way up; his fingers just barely grazed your chest, hovered at the base of your neck.

“It’s too big for you,” he murmured; and you could feel the way he radiated at you, buzzing, skin humming.

“Well, I’m smaller than you,” you said, laughing. Languid. Steady. “See?” You shifted closer, closer—

And your hips touched his and even through layers of fabric you felt a little fuse burst somewhere deep inside your body. God, you wanted to dissolve into him.

You looked up and—and—his face was so close, eyes dark and ravenous, gazing down at you with a sort of hopeless adoration. He wasn’t breathing.

“Oh, uh…” he rasped. “Yeah, I wanna just, um…”

And then he was kissing you.

Oh, he was kissing you, and his hands flew to your hips as if they’d meant to all along, and his lips were tremulous, parted, ecstatic; and he kissed you like it was the beginning and end of all time; like your name was the sound of the stars singing.

You stood on tiptoe, throwing your arms around his neck; and he was the one to deepen the kiss, he was the one to use his tongue to part your lips; you could hear his heart; you could taste his thoughts.

His hands grasped your hips so tight, holding on for dear life; you shifted, backed up to the edge of the bed, and he went with you willingly. He moved his hands up your sides, clutched at your waist; you leaned back and he supported you, bending with you as you fell back onto the bed. For a moment, he pulled away, staring down at you as you lay on his bed—sideways, your hair everywhere, your breath ragged. And then he was on you again, surging into you; climbing onto the bed, knees on either side of you, hands on your shoulders as his lips moved frantically against yours.

You snuck a glance at him as you broke the kiss to catch your breath: he looked like the ground had been knocked out from under his feet.

“Oh god,” he panted, cloudy eyes roaming your face, fingers tugging roughly at the too-big hoodie. “I can’t stand it anymore.”

“Saeyoung,” you said, tangling a hand in his hair (he shivered). “Why have you been avoiding me?”

“Avoiding you?” He tried to focus on you—his eyes were so hazy, and his fingers continued tugging at the hoodie, as if of their own accord. Smiling, you unzipped it for him—instantly, his hands fell to your waist, pushing up the fabric of your shirt. “I haven’t been…” he stammered. “I mean—”

“You’ve been flirting with me,” you said. “But only when I’m not in the room. Why are you doing that?” You slid your hands up his chest; felt, at last, the taut muscles in his shoulders. He was trying so hard to follow the conversation, but you could feel the way his body vibrated when you touched him.

“I, look, I…” he muttered. Your hand drifted down, fingers dancing under the bottom of his t-shirt; he hissed, shutting his eyes. “Y-you have to stop, um…I can’t think when you do that,” he gasped.

You grinned: the genius hacker, unable to think straight because of your fingertips on his skin. You pulled your hands back, clasped them pointedly in front of you.

“Fine,” you said. “No touching till you tell me.”

“Oh…oh god…” Saeyoung sat up, shifting a bit in the bed so he had some distance from you. He ran a hand through his hair and you noticed it was trembling. “You know how I feel about you,” he said slowly.

“Tell me again.” You sat up too, facing him. Sitting opposite each other, cross-legged on the bed like this, you felt overwhelmingly little—like a kid gulping down a huge glass of water after playing all day. Relieved and expectant, still half-immersed in a fantasy world.

He met your eyes then, taking one of your hands, pressing it to his chest as if trying to give himself the strength. His fingers—rough, damaged, beautiful—had begun to feel familiar.  
“I love you,” he said softly. “I love you so much that I wish I could go to the most distant galaxy and find the biggest, shiniest star and bring it back for you.”

“Please don’t,” you said. “Stay here instead.”

He shook his head, making his hair fall into his eyes. You reached for him and he stayed perfectly still for you, letting you take his glasses—you folded them neatly on the bedside table. Then you laid a hand on his cheek—his skin burned.

“If you want me, I won’t go anywhere,” he murmured.

“I want you,” you said.

He was caving in on himself—giving in, cheeks reddening, fingers (still holding yours) moving erratically.

“I didn’t know what I was supposed to do,” he admitted quietly. “This is all new to me.”

“So you let 707 handle it instead, huh?” You leaned in; he didn’t move away, so you pressed your lips to his, so tenderly you thought the very feeling would shatter your heart.

“It’s easy to like 707,” he whispered. “But as for me…”

“Hey.” You moved abruptly, and he gasped, head shooting back—you crawled into his lap, wrapping your legs around his waist, leaning your forehead against his. “ _Saeyoung_ ,” you hissed. “I love _you_. If this whole thing is going to work, you’re gonna need to start listening to me when I tell you that.”

He gulped. You could feel his heart racing; his fingers slipped under the hoodie again, digging into your waist.

“I’ll try,” he whispered roughly.

Then he kissed you, arms wrapping tighter around your waist—tugging you flush against his body. You could feel how his breath caught as you parted your lips; the way the muscles in his arms quivered as you ran your fingers over them; the way his hips rocked beneath you.

“Okay, you can touch me now,” you whispered—as though he weren’t already—and he groaned into your mouth, tugging desperately at his hoodie, which was still hanging loosely around you. You helped him, tugging it off; then his fingers were twisting the fabric of your shirt, and he moaned again as you wriggled in his lap. “Oh, did you want me to…?” You grinned, lifting your shirt; and he pulled back, letting you, eyes growing huge as you tugged it over your head.

“Oh my god…” he hissed—dipping to press trembling lips to your bare shoulder. You skated your fingers under his shirt, over his belly; you kissed his jaw (at last!), his earlobe, his neck. His hands felt huge and rough as he ran them over your body—caressing, longing, cherishing. You grinded against him and he exhaled sharply; you could feel his erection straining against his jeans, pressing into you, making stars burst behind your eyes.

You tugged at his t-shirt again and he understood, lifted his arms obediently for you; you pulled it over his head and tossed it aside, running both hands down his torso. His bare skin was intoxicating to you—his chest was muscular, dotted with scars (both old and more recent). His belly was softer, also scarred: there was so much about him, you thought in a frantic moment, that you still didn’t know. So much of his past that was still shrouded; so many wounds that hadn’t healed.

He kissed you again with a sort of wild fervor, and you stopped thinking entirely.

It was like falling headfirst over a waterfall, doing this with him—blinding, astonishing. His lips were back on your shoulder now, teeth grazing your bra strap, tugging at it—and he shifted uncomfortably beneath you, hips questing hopelessly for relief. You grinded against his trapped erection again and he shuddered.

You unhooked your bra and shrugged it off; he wiggled his hips under you, pupils huge in his desperate eyes. He looked like he’d forgotten how to speak.

“You good, babe?” you whispered into his lips and he groaned. Shifting in his lap, you ran a hand over the bulge in his jeans and he whimpered, his eyes fluttering shut, head falling back. He was losing himself, you thought, sliding out of his lap to unzip his jeans, alleviating some of the pressure—you tugged them down over his hips and his erection sprang free, tenting his underwear. His arms were shaking.

“You still with me?” you purred, palming him through his underwear. He whined, low in his throat, hips thrusting erratically against your hand.

“I’m—ah—ahah,” he managed, panting as you touched him again; you bent to kiss his tip through his underwear and he cried out, back arching, fingers grasping for purchase at your waist.

“Can I take these off?” you asked; he nodded frantically, panting. You slid the jeans down his legs, and he was no help at all, shivering as your hands touched his bare skin. Your whole body felt flushed—like running through the snow to jump into a hot spring. He was totally overcome, leaning back, eyes shut; you ran a hand over his cock, through his underwear; he looked like he was just barely keeping it together. And seeing him like this was almost unbearable—the heat building between your legs threatened to overwhelm you. You slipped a hand into your own pants—soft and flowy (chosen intentionally for this very reason)—pressed a finger to your clit. Hot, desperate. You flicked a finger against yourself as you palmed him again, making him squirm deliciously.

“Oh, y-you…I…let me…” His eyes fluttered open, drunk on sensations, fuzzy—even in this state, he zeroed in on you, taking in the way you were touching yourself, the face you were making. He reached for you.

“Let me show you,” you said. You kicked off your pants; he watched in awe as, over top of your underwear, you flitted your finger against yourself again. You felt hot under his rapt attention. He absorbed everything with those fiery eyes: the way you moved your finger against the obvious wet spot on your underwear, the way your breathing changed as you touched yourself.

“…got it,” he panted, eyes huge as his fingers caught yours, moving them aside. The abrupt pause in stimulation was almost painful—your bit your lip, feeling fragile. “Can I…?”

“Please,” you gasped.

And then his finger took up the rhythm you’d shown him, copying your movements exactly—he was a quick study, watching carefully for your reactions. And his fingers were stronger than yours—rougher—and the exhilaration of looking up into his face, knowing _he_ was the one doing this to you: it was heady, electrifying.

You wanted him to feel it too; you ran a hand over his cock again, and it practically jumped—even through his underwear, rocking toward you, seeking more.

But: “D-don’t,” he panted. “I don’t think I can, um…I’m r-really…”

You got it.

You let your hands drift to his shoulders, digging into his skin as he fingered you slowly, carefully: a phantom touch. He paid such close attention to you; you moaned as he moved faster and his eyebrows shot up, cheeks flushing; you arched your back, thighs shaking, and a wicked grin spread across his face. Hazy eyes, big smile.

“I’ve got you,” he muttered—and his voice was lower now, throatier, as though he’d figured out that he was in control. “I want you to, kitten.”

Ah— _that_ was new. You felt lightning-struck, biting your lip (too hard) as your back arched, legs trembling, pleasure peaking within you as you hit the white, frothing water at the base of your imaginary waterfall.

“Faster,” you hissed; and he complied, of course, curling his index flinger, flicking against your underwear faster, faster. Ah: and the friction of the thin fabric, and his calloused fingertip, and the wonderstruck look in his eyes—

Rainbows swam at the edges of your vision as you came, the white water inside your head splashing around you—floating, floating, letting the water take you, your body disappearing down a river of feeling.

You realized you were crying out his name as your vision cleared, rivulets of invisible water cascading over your body. Numb fingers.

“You,” he gasped: you focused on him, giggling, high on the pleasure—he looked like he’d been hit by a falling star.

“For god’s sake, come here,” you said. You hooked your fingers over the waistband of his underwear and he caught on quicker this time, tearing them off. You fell back on the bed and suddenly he was hovering over you, staring down into your face with a ferocity that made your body feel like liquid.

“Do you, um…do we need…” He was stammering, voice thick, hips rocking; you put a hand on his chest, stilling him.

It felt like yesterday (and a century ago) that you’d had this very same conversation with Saeran. You tried to focus your overstimulated mind: you were prepared, technically, having been on birth control for years already, but…

“We’re good,” you told him, “unless…Saeyoung, is this…I mean, have you…?”  
He laughed; some of the tension broke. His eyes glittered.

“No, no,” he said. “Why, was I so amazing just now that you thought I had?”

You shook your head, pulling him closer so you could kiss him.

“You _were_ amazing,” you whispered. He lowered himself over you slowly, strong arms holding him up even as his hips quivered.

“I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing,” he warned you.

“I’ve got you, baby,” you whispered—echoing his words of just a few minutes earlier—and he grinned, pressing his lips to the corner of your mouth. You ran a hand over his length and he groaned; you used one hand to guide him, the other opening yourself for him—

—and he slid into you, gasping, eyes fluttering shut; he made a nearly inhuman sound, a sort of moan: an almost-prayer.

Then he froze, and you steadied him, hands flat on his chest. His eyes were screwed shut, his breath ragged.

“Slowly,” you said; and he obeyed, muscles taut: he pulled back the tiniest bit, thrust into you—his movements small, constrained. He groaned and you pulled him to you with a hand in his hair; kissed his sweet, tender lips

“It’s okay,” you whispered. You lifted your hips, guiding him, setting a pace; he followed you, mimicked your motions, fell into a rhythm. “Good,” you said, “good.”—and he rocked into you, ragged breath on your lips, jaw set as he battled for control.

Sparks burst in your mind—blazing, flickering.

His lips brushed yours, and you kissed him back, harder, pulling at his hair—he whimpered, hips stuttering. But he kept it together.

You twisted sideways, pulling him with you—you were face-to-face, both on your sides; and he was still inside you; rocking, shifting, moving faster, taking the lead. You felt you could hear his blood in his veins, his heartbeat in the movements of his hips. Your love ran deep; you felt it in the pit of your stomach, in the marrow of your bones.

“I love…” he hissed. And you kissed him, wrapping your arms around him; he thrust into you harder, faster, relinquishing control, giving in—and you squeezed around him, pushing him over the edge. His whole body quaked, mouth opening, teeth grazing your bottom lip—almost painful; beautiful; sublime.

You held him through it, fingers scratching at his bare skin; his eyes went wide, deep with devotion.

He panted into your lips as he stilled.

“You too,” you whispered.

He laughed, and it was a gasp, throaty and beautiful: his forehead fell against yours and you wrapped a leg over his hips. Still inside you, he trembled.

“We…” he panted “We really…”

“We did,” you said—and then you were laughing too; uncontrollably, wonderfully.

“I meant it,” he murmured, voice like honey. “I’d go out and get all the stars for you. I’d make a big, glowing pile of them at your feet.”

“That,” you giggled, “would be a fire hazard.”

He squeezed you tight.

“Don’t care,” he whispered. “I wanna give them all to you. Every beautiful thing in the universe.”

You pictured him: floating in space; glittering and bright—gathering the stars for you. He’d do it—you had no doubt.

“No,” you told him. “I can’t stand the thought of you being far away again.”

“Not going anywhere,” he whispered. He brushed your hair off your forehead, tucked it behind your ear; kissed the sticky skin above your heart. “You know, right?”

“What do I know?”

He smiled and every cell in your body vibrated.

“That I belong to you,” he said. “Obviously.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to go on a date.”
> 
> It was breakfast time; your coffee cup was halfway to your lips when the idea dawned on you.
> 
> Two pairs of eyes were on your face in an instant; two bright, curly heads perked up. Their synchronicity made you smile.
> 
> “With, uhhh…” Saeyoung pulled himself into a sitting position: cross-legged on the couch, looking slightly more alert. “With which one of us?”
> 
> “With both of you,” you told them. “Naturally.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is FLUFFY~ Probably because it's starting to get warm here and I can't stop feeling all giggly.
> 
> Saeran's hair is a plot point here. I know there are lots of HCs out there about his hair, and they're all super interesting! In the world of this fic, he has been dying it.
> 
> This chapter is SFW.

“I want to go on a date.”

It was breakfast time; your coffee cup was halfway to your lips when the idea dawned on you.

Two pairs of eyes were on your face in an instant; two bright, curly heads perked up. Their synchronicity made you smile.

Saeran, who was curled up in the chair opposite you, slowly set down the bowl of rice he was holding, surveying you with a level gaze. Saeyoung was draped over the couch, still half-asleep, but he too raised his head, eyebrows raised.

“You wanna do what?” Saeyoung asked. He looked a little out of it, his eyes glazed over and sleepy: the three of you had been trying to exist on a somewhat more regular schedule lately, and it didn’t come naturally to him.

“A date,” you repeated. You weren’t sure why it had occurred to you just then: maybe it was something about the way the air had felt when you stepped outside to peek at the garden this morning: fizzy and stirring—full of promise.

“With, uhhh…” Saeyoung pulled himself into a sitting position: cross-legged on the couch, looking slightly more alert. “With which one of us?”

Saeran laughed quietly.

“That was what I was going to ask,” he said. They were both watching you, intrigued and a little bit puzzled. It hadn’t even occurred to you that this would confuse them. _I live_ , you thought, _with two literal geniuses. And yet…_

“With both of you,” you told them, setting down your coffee cup—it made a satisfying _thump_ against the wooden table. “Naturally.”

Saeran’s eyes softened as he looked at you, a gentle smile dancing over his lips.

“A date with both of us, huh.” He considered the idea, drumming his fingers against the table. It was not necessarily in his nature to deviate so drastically from routine; still, even the routine nowadays felt fragile, tenuous—temporary. Days felt comfortable, but also unbelievably long—you wondered if you were the only one who was starting to feel restless.

“I’ve never been on a real date before,” Saeyoung said. He sprang up from the couch, heading to the kitchen; as he passed behind you, his hand grazed your waist—and it was tentative, barely a touch at all, but still. _Progress_ , you thought triumphantly.

“A _real_ date?” you asked, following him with your eyes as he went to the rice cooker, which you’d left on—it was, at least, starting to become habit for the twins to eat actual meals (sometimes even at regular mealtimes). You weren’t sure if you should take credit, necessarily–but still, you felt somewhat proud. “As opposed to what?”

He waggled his eyebrows at you.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”  
Saeran sighed. “I honestly wouldn’t,” he said drily; Saeyoung cackled.

You sipped your coffee.

It had been a few days since the evening you’d gone to Saeyoung’s room—and ended up spending the whole night there, lulled to sleep by the feeling of his fingers combing rhythmically through your hair. The weather was getting warmer; there were yellow and red tulips blooming in the garden; a bit at a time, things were starting to change.

“So?” You realized Saeyoung had appeared beside you. He leaned on the table, propped his face in his hands. “Are we gonna go on a date?”  
You glanced at Saeran; he was leaning back in his chair, peering at the two of you with an amused expression on his face.

“Where would you like to go, my love?” he asked, reaching across the table to squeeze your hand. You hesitated—you hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.

You’d gone out in public so little, the three of you, since coming back to live in the bunker together. Going into the world was strange, for both of them: they’d spent their whole lives trying to be invisible, their faces practically classified information. Since the initial broadcast exposing the Prime Minister, they’d not only been forced into the public eye but also become widely recognizable: their faces were all over the internet, nowadays. Neither of them were exactly thrilled about this development.

So when you did go into town with Saeran, it was quick and discrete: he needed clothes, of course, and you needed to buy groceries for the house—and he went to garden stores too, combing through them for the specific seedlings and tools he wanted. You’d managed to get through these trips without him being recognized; he was, after all, an expert at disappearing into the shadows.

Saeyoung had dealt with the situation in his own way: by hardly leaving the bunker at all. This, to be fair, was the way he’d always lived. You knew—in vague terms, as there was still so much he hadn’t told you—that he used to leave on assignment for his agency, sometimes; most of the time, though, he’d done his mysterious work from home. You were sure that he still felt safest when he was someplace no one could reach.

But nowadays, the consequences of being recognized were so much less grave than they had been before. Neither of them wanted to be noticed, necessarily—but if they were, they would _survive_. This, in and of itself, felt like a miracle.

And so it was time, you thought, to get them out of the house. You simply couldn’t stay holed up here forever: you were starting to find it hard to breathe, sometimes, trapped between these bullet-proof, windowless walls.

“There’s a park,” you said slowly, “that I used to go to as a kid. It’s a little far away, but it’s never crowded, so I don’t think anyone would bother you.”

Saeran was still watching you—his eyes softened at the look on your face.

“I’d love that,” he said.

Saeyoung was shifting in his seat, fiddling aimlessly with a spoon. Automatically, you put a hand over his, stilling him, and he jumped—startled.

“If it’s gonna make you uncomfortable to go out in public, we don’t have to,” you told him firmly, watching for his reaction.

For Saeran, things like driving into the city, or going to a plant nursery, or shopping for groceries, felt momentous—little wonders, sparks of freedom. For Saeyoung, though, you sensed that leaving the house at all stirred up painful memories. Saeran had spent much of his life hidden away, unable to make these kinds of choices for himself; Saeyoung had spent more of his life than he’d wanted to out in the world—but always in disguise, and full of fear, and doing the work that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

You watched as Saeyoung flipped through his various masks, apparently trying to decide what would best suit this situation: for a moment, he grinned, but the expression melted from his face instantly—that trick was no good anymore (and wouldn’t work on you, anyway). Finally, he met your eyes.

“I want to go,” he said softly. “I want us to all go together.”

“Okay, then we will!” You jumped out of your chair, suddenly feeling energized. Again, two pairs of eyes followed you, and Saeran laughed, accustomed to your enthusiasm.

“Finish eating breakfast first?” he suggested, eyeing your nearly-untouched food. He was right, of course—he almost always was. You sat back down, feeling slightly chastised, your cheeks pink.

“After breakfast, then,” you muttered. Saeran leaned forward, tucking your hair behind your ear with one cool hand.

“No rush,” he said. “We have all the time in the world.”

* * *

As you stepped out of the car, you walked straight into a vivid waterfall of memories, cascading around you in bursts and shimmers. It had been years since you’d come to this park, and the time you’d spent here felt like it was in another universe (and it _was_ , in a way). There were the two huge trees you remembered, lining the curvy pebble-paved path—little white buds dotted the branches, which meant that the flowers would be opening any day now. There was the playground in the distance, every bit as rickety and brightly-colored as it had been years ago; and there were the sounds of children calling to each other, of frogs croaking in the out-of-sight pond, of birds twittering overhead.

You stood absolutely still for a moment, breathing in the distinctive scent: like cherry blossoms and sweat and mulch. You didn’t notice Saeran slipping out of the car and coming up beside you till he took your hand.

“You have a lot of memories here, don’t you?” he said quietly into your ear; he saw, of course, the distant look in your eyes, felt the way you squeezed his hand a little too tight.

“Yeah,” you said slowly. “I guess I didn’t quite realize what it would feel like.”

Saeyoung came around the car and hovered on your other side—distant, not quite touching, like he wasn’t sure what his role was here. He pulled the baseball cap he’d insisted on wearing (“You aren’t _really_ a celebrity, you know,” Saeran had informed him—but he’d put it on anyway, claiming it made him blend in) lower over his eyes, leaning against the hood of the car.

“Will you show us the things you remember?” Saeran asked. He watched your face, seemingly enthralled by the way you were responding—he always did this, gazing at you to gauge your reaction, thrilled by every tiny new discovery he made about you. You loved this; it also made you feel a little bit shy.

But it wasn’t just the memories that made you feel odd—there was something else, too.

You hadn’t thought, when you’d suggested this place, about what it would mean to bring the twins to a place that was full of your childhood memories. You weren’t sure how they’d feel about the cheery playground, or the shouts of kids playing in the field, or the warm voices of parents calling to their children. You felt guilty, all of a sudden—an invisible hand clenched around your heart.

“Sorry,” you found yourself muttering, holding Saeran’s hand tighter. “Was it shitty of me to bring you here?”

As always, Saeran knew what you meant (perhaps even better than you did).

“No,” he said—and he spoke quickly, and more adamantly than usual. His uncharacteristic firmness took you by surprise. “I want to see the places that have meant something to you.”

“But…”

Saeyoung scooted closer and bumped his shoulder against yours; the unexpected contact gave you goosebumps.

“Me too,” he said; and while Saeran was louder than normal, Saeyoung was quieter. “You should see the way your face looks right now. It’s adorable. I _want_ to be here.”

_God_ , you thought—frantically willing back the tears you felt pricking the backs of your eyes. _What did I ever do to deserve them?_

You grabbed Saeyoung’s hand, too, and he jumped, glancing at you with nervous eyes. You strode forward, tugging both of them behind you; Saeran laughed, and Saeyoung made a sort of strangled giggling sound.

“Is this, uhhhh…is this okay?” he asked in a weak voice. You shrugged; suddenly, you felt like a weight you hadn’t known you were bearing had been lifted off your shoulders. The breeze danced in your hair, delicious on your neck; both of their hands felt incredibly solid in yours: thin fingers, rough palms.

“Why not?” you sang. And perhaps it _did_ look strange, you holding both of their hands like this: Saeyoung with his hat pulled over his eyes and his hoodie tied around his waist, Saeran with his bright white hair, stunningly beautiful in another of the soft, pastel-colored shirts he’d bought recently. You laughed at the absurdity of the situation—at the heady delight of holding both of their hands, at the utter sense of comfort that settled over you as you strode forward with your beloved twins on either side of you.

You followed the path as it curved through the trees—recognizing the familiar crunching under your feet, the rustle of the overhanging branches. Saeran held your hand lightly, naturally—he was used to it, of course, and he automatically slowed his pace to patch yours. Saeyoung’s grip was a little tighter—this was all new territory for him, and his pace was bouncy and a little too fast. After so many years, you were pleased to find how little about this place had changed: the tree branches still dipped alarmingly low over the path, making the boys duck their heads, and the shouts of children in the distance were just as bright and unencumbered as they sounded in your memory.

Off to the right, you spotted something—in a flash of splatter-painted feelings, a memory you didn’t know you had settled over your heart. You turned abruptly off the path—both boys, still holding your hands (and always attentive to you, always attuned to the subtlest shifts in your behavior) followed.

“This is my favorite tree,” you told them proudly. You couldn’t believe you’d forgotten it. Just ahead, a huge camphor tree sprawled fantastically, its long, broad branches casting massive spiderweb-like shadows over the grass. You hadn’t thought about this tree in years; now, distant memories floated to the surface: eating popsicles underneath its thick branches, leaning on its sturdy trunk, weaving it into your imaginary games.

The air was scented sharply with the tree’s distinctive fragrance. You found yourself staring up into the branches; this tree, like so much else here, seemed to have stayed resolutely the same as the world around it had changed.

Other people might have been amused, or puzzled, by the reverence with which you stared up at the tree—but not Saeyoung or Saeran. They never questioned it.

“It’s beautiful,” Saeran said—and you heard the weight that he gave the words, the emphasis he placed on your memories.

Saeyoung dropped your hand to spring forward, reaching for one of the lower-hanging branches. He paused, cheeks flushed, turning back to look at you.

“Would you, uhh…mind if I climbed it?” he asked. You giggled.

“It’s not _my_ tree.”

“But it’s a special tree,” he said. He waited for your permission so patiently, one hand wrapped around the branch (and you couldn’t help but notice the way his arm muscles flexed as he did so, catching the sunlight in a way that made your body vibrate).

“Of course you can climb it,” you told him, grinning. Easily, he hoisted himself up onto the branch, lifting himself up and over it with his arms. Beside you, Saeran shook his head.

“Show-off,” he muttered. You laughed.

“I always wanted to climb this tree,” you admitted, watching Saeyoung scramble to his feet, reaching for another, higher branch. “The last time I came here, I was too little.”

“I think you’re _still_ too little,” Saeran said, quirking an eyebrow at you.

“I’m not!”

“You probably are.” Saeyoung’s voice came from somewhere above, his body obscured by the thick branches. Oh, and this was a new development, you realized—now _both_ of them could tease you.

“I’m not,” you repeated. Standing on tiptoe, you reached for the lowest branch. The tree seemed so much shorter and squatter than it had when you were a child, and yet—and yet—your fingertips just skimmed the underside of the branch. You grunted in frustration.

“Here, princess.”

In an instant, Saeran was behind you, his arms wrapping around your waist. For a moment, you leaned back, relishing in the feeling of being held—until you realized what he was doing: bending, his arms sliding lower, hugging your hips.

You squealed as he lifted you, giving you the few extra centimeters of height you needed to reach the branch. You heard Saeyoung cackling from above as you wrapped your hands around the rough bark, squirming as Saeran’s fingers tickled your hips.

“ _Now_ what?” you gasped, clinging to the branch, feet dangling below.

“Wait,” Saeran said; he adjusted his grip—then he was holding your legs, boosting you, and you pushed up with your arms till the branch was at your waist. Laughing gleefully, you threw a leg over it.

“I’m in the tree!” you cried. Saeran smiled up at you from below—oh, and there was such affection in his eyes, such uninhibited adoration.

“You only made it to the first branch, babe,” said Saeyoung. He’d somehow managed to climb so high he was almost out of sight, and he was scrambling back down now, climbing nearer. He paused, just one branch above you, and offered you his hand.

“I don’t know if I can—” you began—but you took his hand anyway, and he gave it a gentle tug; then you were gasping as he lifted you, catching you easily, swinging you onto the branch with him. He wrapped both arms around you, steadying you as you landed—winded but unscathed.

“That was a trick,” you muttered into his shoulder; you felt his chest vibrate as he laughed.

“And it _worked_ ,” he said. “I’ve got you now.”

Automatically, you tilted your face upward, your eyes fluttering shut. There was something deliriously pleasant about knowing there was nothing beneath your feet but air—and about the firmness of his hands on your waist, the warmth of his chest against yours.

“Is that your ‘I want a kiss’ face?” he asked, voice low and a little rough in your ear.

“You haven’t figured that out by now?”

You felt his breath on your lips as he laughed; then he was cupping your cheek with one hand, bending to kiss you softly, lips impossibly tender.

“Make that face more often,” he whispered into your parted lips. “It’s absolutely irresistible.”

You grinned, taking his hand and squeezing it—letting your intertwined fingers dangle off the branch, cooled by the spring breeze.

There was a gentle rustling below you, and you turned just in time to see Saeran slide onto the branch behind you—and how, you wondered, had he done it so quickly, so silently? For all that he appeared fragile, he was—and you were constantly reminded of this—always stronger and nimbler than he seemed.

“Hi,” he said, smiling at the look of surprise on Saeyoung’s face.

“Um,” you said. “Sorry. Was that weird?”  
Saeran wrapped both arms around your waist and you leaned back on his chest, feeling the familiar rhythm of his heartbeat resonating throughout your whole body.

“You can kiss in a tree,” he said blithely, swinging his legs back and forth—he, too, seemed surprised and delighted by the sensation of being suspended in midair. “I just wanted a kiss too.”

He pressed his lips to your cheek: unexpected and sweet. You laughed—and you found that once you’d started, you couldn’t stop.

A year ago, when you’d been utterly alone, with nowhere to go—and a few months ago, when you’d let yourself be carried away to a mysterious place in the middle of nowhere for a boy with a gentle voice—and even just a couple of weeks ago, when you’d been fighting so desperately for the lives of the people you’d come to love (suddenly and ferociously)—you never would’ve pictured yourself here: in your favorite tree, in a park threaded with memories both lovely and confusing, with these two beloved boys on either side of you. Saeran’s arms around your waist were comforting, and Saeyoung still held your hand in his larger, warmer one. Somehow, you realized, you’d never felt less alone in your entire life.

You turned your head sideways, snuggling into Saeran’s chest. He lifted a hand to stroke your hair; Saeyoung was watching him with thoughtful eyes.

“Saeran,” he said—and it was strange, you realized then, to hear him say his brother’s name. You could probably count on one hand the number of times he’d said it. “I noticed something before, when you were on the ground. Can I tell you?”

“What’s that?”

And oh, there was something—a sort of formality between them, you realized; a timidity, a wariness. It was there in the way that Saeyoung addressed his brother, like he wasn’t quite sure which topics were the safe ones—and it was there, too, in the way Saeran squeezed you a little tighter, as if unconsciously asking for comfort. You nestled closer.

“Your hair…” Saeyoung said slowly, not quite meeting either of your eyes.

Ah, so he’d noticed it too: and it had been particularly obvious from above, it was true—the natural red showing through at the roots. You wondered if Saeyoung had just noticed it for the first time now, or if he’d been deliberating about bringing it up—wondering what lines were safe to cross, what territory was still off-limits.

Saeran made a soft sound of acknowledgement; his posture was relaxed, but you felt the way he swallowed—hard, like he wasn’t quite sure what he was going to say.

“Yes,” he said at last. “I noticed it too.”

“So you were dying it, huh,” Saeyoung said, gesturing a little awkwardly at the tips of Saeran’s hair, which were still as bright white and fluffy as they’d been the day you met him.

“Yes,” he said again—and you felt him starting to shut down, his shoulders tensing, his fingers fiddling nervously with the edge of your shirt.

“Was that a, uh…style…thing?” Saeyoung asked; you almost wanted to laugh at the earnestness in his expression: the desperate attempt to pry without prying, to learn without frightening Saeran off. You understood, sort of—you’d felt this way, once, about Ray. _How to get him to talk to me_ , you’d wondered back then, _without him running away?_

Saeran laughed—gentle as usual, though there was a bitterness there, too.

“It was a you thing,” he said.

From the expression on Saeyoung’s face, you knew he’d suspected as much.

Saeyoung quirked an eyebrow, forcing a sort of crooked grin onto his face.

“If you don’t think I’m pretty, you can just say so,” he said—and the teasing felt forced, stiff, like he was falling back on old coping mechanisms. His false smile made you sad; so did the nervous way Saeran’s fingers tapped against your waist.

Saeran took a deep breath. “Before I dyed my hair,” he said slowly, “I couldn’t look in the mirror. For a long time.”

Saeyoung’s eyes widened, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. The children’s voices in the distance felt louder, more aggressively present, than before—you wished you could wipe all their fears away with the tips of your fingers.

“Sometimes, when I first joined the agency,” Saeyoung said in a low voice, “I’d see my reflection in the computer screen and think it was you.”

Your heart stuttered.

It was rare, even recently, that Saeyoung would speak about the agency, or about the time the brothers had been separated. Saeran was squeezing you very tightly now—you let him, of course.

“Once,” Saeyoung continued, looking down into his lap, “I convinced myself it was really you. I spent the whole day running up and down the street, trying to find you. I wasn’t even in this country, and I knew you weren’t—but I just couldn’t—”

Saeyoung stared down through the branches, eyes hard—and you knew he was seeing something else: broken fragments of memories, bitter wounds that were still frayed around the edges.

“Even when they started increasing how much of the elixir I was taking,” Saeran said after a moment, so soft you hardly heard him, “even at times when I was so out of it I didn’t know who I was, or where I was, or how I’d gotten there…” His heart raced; you tried to breathe peace into his veins, as you’d done so many times before. “I don’t remember well, but apparently whenever I heard your name, I’d go into a rampage. I’d…sort of…snap.”

“You hated me,” Saeyoung said, swinging his feet in the air. “I know. I deserved that.”

“No.” Saeran’s voice was, for the second time that day, uncharacteristically loud; Saeyoung’s head shot up, his eyes huge as he gazed at his brother. “I did hate you, but that was all pretense and delusion.” Saeyoung was holding his breath. “I acted like that because I _missed_ you,” Saeran said quietly. “Idiot.”  
Saeyoung’s hand shook in yours.

“I should have…” he started.

“We’ve been over this,” Saeran said. “You didn’t have a choice.”

There was something about this tree, you thought wildly—some sort of magic infused in the branches, some sort of inexplicable quality that allowed the twins to speak freely to each other. Some of the claustrophobia you’d felt recently—the heaviness of the air in the bunker, the oppressive weight of things unsaid—seemed to lift.

“So, your hair…” Saeyoung said, a small smile dancing over his lips. “What are you gonna do?”

“I’m not sure, actually.” Saeran took one arm from around your waist to run a hand through his hair; you twisted to peer up at it: the roots, now, were every bit as bright as Saeyoung’s. “What do you think?” he asked you.

You considered it.

You loved Saeyoung’s hair, of course: you were entranced by the way it shone in the sunlight, and captivated by the rainbow of tones you’d seen in his curls as they’d fallen across his pillow in a room lit only by glow-in-the-dark stars. You knew what it would mean, of course, for Saeran to let his hair grow out—for him to begin to look like his brother again.

But you loved Saeran’s white hair, too; you’d loved it since the very first moment you’d met Ray, feeling absolutely stunned and disarmed by his beauty. You understood the importance, even now, for Saeran to differentiate himself from the brother he’d always seen as bigger, brighter, stronger.

“You’re beautiful,” you told him, shrugging; he smiled and kissed your eyebrow. “What do _you_ want to do with it?”

Saeran hummed, running his hand through his hair again. You knew, because you’d felt it, how much softer the roots felt—how fluffy and fried his hair had been from years of inexpert bleaching. You were sure he felt it too.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” he said, peering over your head at his brother. Saeyoung shrugged.

“Promise I won’t.”

“I think…I want to keep dying it,” Saeran said, his voice clear and sure. “Though I know somebody who could maybe help me bleach it in a, um…healthier way this time.” He nuzzled your head with his nose and you giggled.

“I absolutely could do that.”

“Not that I’m taking it the wrong way, because I’m _not_ ,” said Saeyoung—his posture was more relaxed now, and he leaned back against the trunk of the tree, one arm extended so he could hold the branch above him. “But, you know, why?”

“It’s not a you thing anymore,” Saeran responded, wrapping his arm around your waist again. “It’s a me thing. It’s a…making my own choice thing.”

You thought about the clothes Saeran had picked out for himself recently (and the fear you’d seen in his eyes the first time you’d asked him to make a selection); you thought about the garden he was planting (and all the time he’d spent carefully selecting each seed, and where it would be planted, and when, and how). For Saeran, _every_ choice was momentous: another gentle reminder that, for the first time, his life was his own; an affirmation that he was the only one who chose what he’d do with his body, or his words, or his mind.

For Saeran, this was pivotal.

“Yeah,” said Saeyoung, watching his brother closely. “I get that.”

It was quiet for a moment. Saeran rested his chin on your shoulder, fingers playing with the ends of your hair. Saeyoung plucked a leaf from the branch above and twirled it in his hand. In motion, the two of them—as always.

But there was something else, too.

There was a peace here—in this little park, in this tree, between the three of you, that felt somehow larger and softer than before.

“The tree,” you said, “is magical.”

“What?” asked Saeran, as Saeyoung laughed. Your cheeks flushed.

“The two of you talking like this,” you said, feeling a little bit flustered. “It’s…you know. Special.”

“It’s not the tree,” Saeran said softly. “But there’s something else magical that’s making things easier, lately. More peaceful. Warmer.”

Saeyoung nodded enthusiastically, dropping the leaf to rest a hand on your knee.

“You know what it is?” he asked, his tone heart-meltingly affectionate.

You shook your head.

“It’s you, of course,” Saeran murmured; and his soft voice mingled with the gentle breeze and the song of the birds, making gravity seem to disappear.

“I didn’t do anything!” you muttered; and you _hadn’t_ , you thought, except for love them both so much you thought you might absolutely fall to pieces.

They looked at each other, over your head; the air hummed.

“You did,” Saeyoung said; his fingers tapped a steady rhythm against your leg. “You did, though.”

Your mind felt full, dizzy—you had not, you were quite sure, done anything of the sort.

“The magic that makes living in the world feel easier every day,” Saeran said, his voice as delightful as the breeze in your hair, “is you, my love.”

You shook your head, feeling tears forming at the corners of your eyes again. Saeyoung smiled, wiping one away with his scarred fingertip.

“It’s true,” he said. “Trust us.”

And you _did_ , of course—with your pounding heart, your racing mind; with every fiber of your being.

**Author's Note:**

> IS the title a tswift lyric? Who can say (it is).
> 
> Yes yes I know that song's about cheating and this fic is very much NOT about cheating but? It inspires me??
> 
> Let me know if you enjoyed it. <3 I'll be updating regularly!


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